“This is the path of joy and sorrow,” said Xan, naming the characters. He paused before continuing. “Beyond this door awaits a life of pleasure and servitude.”
Sally leaned closer to Jun and whispered. “The path of hair and make-up.”
“Intimacy and deceit,” intoned Xan solemnly, his back to them.
Jun whispered back. “Kissing and telling.”
“Spying and screwing,” added Sally, both girls suppressing a giggle.
Xan turned to face the line again as both girls forced a frown and looked straight ahead.
Xan gestured to the red door again. “This is the path of consorts and concubines,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet. “Some of you may think the life of a concubine is exotic, and you might be right. But do not think of it as a romantic life.” He paused and looked meaningfully at each of the girls. “If you choose to go down that path, you will be chosen by someone.” He paused again for effect. “But you will not get to choose that someone in turn.”
The girls shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground between their feet.
“And you might find yourself living with one person,” Xan continued, his voice even more quiet but no less clear, “yet working for another. A consort hears many things. Many secrets.”
Xan looked up at the sun and squinted, sweat beading on his forehead. The girls remained silent.
“If you choose the path of joy and sorrow,” he said, as much to himself as the girls in front of him, “one day you will be called. And you will have to answer.”
Sally turned to look up and down the line. Everyone already knew which girls would choose that path. Whenever a class was given time to themselves, certain girls would break off into pairs or small groups and run to their favorite part of the compound. For Sally and Jun it was always the obstacle course or the dojo. For some girls it was the theater and the room full of costumes. For others, the kitchen or music hall. After five years each girl had mapped out her future, whether she realized it or not.
And Sally knew the instructors saw everything. This speech was part of the tradition of the school. A ritual, nothing more.
Xan turned his back again and raised his left arm, gesturing toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Set into the wall was another circular door, this one painted black with red door handles forming the inner circle, once again marked with Chinese characters. Equally elaborate carvings covered its surface, the tigers and dragons intertwined with swords and symbols that looked like shuriken, or throwing stars. The same optical illusion of the carvings made the girls lean forward unconsciously as they studied the door. Sally felt herself pulled by the gravity of the images.
“This is the path of life and death,” Xan said, his voice regaining its previous timbre.
Sally felt herself tremble with excitement.
“Beyond this door is a life of power and control,” Xan continued.
Sally and Jun held their breath.
“Discipline and despair.
“Judgment and justice.”
Sally gasped at the last word.
Xan turned, locking eyes with her as he finished. “If you choose this path,” he began, seeming to speak directly to her, “you will come face to face with your darkest self.”
Sally met his gaze, her face expressionless.
“You will have control over how you do things,” he said deliberately, “but not over why you do them.”
Again he looked up and down the line, unblinking despite the sweat in his eyes. “Your life may be your own, but your conscience will belong to someone else.”
Sally’s nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply. She felt lightheaded and thought she might faint. Xan’s words seemed no more than whispers, as if Sally were hearing his thoughts instead of his voice.
“If you choose the path of life and death,” he said, “there is no turning back.”
Sally stared at the black surface of the door and felt herself being drawn inexorably to the other side, the undertow pulling at her as she welcomed its embrace. She had already turned her back on any other door a long time ago.
Xan’s final words seemed to reach her from far away as they echoed around the courtyard.
“In six months, you will have to choose.”
Chapter Seventeen
San Francisco, present day
Cape was pleased to find himself surrounded by pancakes.
Mama’s Restaurant had been a fixture in North Beach for almost thirty years. They served one of the best breakfasts in San Francisco until three p.m. daily, except for Mondays, when they were closed. Cape had noticed all the good breakfast joints were closed on Mondays and suspected some sort of collusion, a concentrated effort by the forces of evil to prevent him from starting the week off right. He made a mental note to conduct a thorough investigation, if only to ease his neurotic mind and justify a sampling tour of all the pancakes made in the Bay Area.
Mama’s was cafeteria style, with only a handful of tables squeezed into a space smaller than most studio apartments. Seating was allocated based on the number in your party or the size of your order. Based on the plates surrounding him now, Cape had obviously given the impression that four or five more people were coming. He had secured the much coveted corner table, behind which he waited patiently for Linda to arrive.
In front of him on the table, bracketed by plates of food, headlines from the local paper jumped up at him. Mayor versus Mayor covered the front page, with two facing photographs-one of the current mayor of San Francisco, who was colloquially referred to as “da Mayor,” and the other of Harold Yan, whom the paper called “the Mayor of Chinatown.” Yan was accusing the mayor of dragging his heels investigating the refugee ship, saying the people of the city deserved answers. Yan referenced a trip the mayor had taken to China the previous year as a member of a goodwill committee from West Coast cities to encourage trade with the Pacific Rim.
Yan never accused the mayor of corruption or undue influence from his “new Chinese friends,” but by suggesting the mayor turn to them for help, the insinuation was all too clear. And coming from a man who was himself Chinese, it was irrefutable, at least from a political standpoint.
Cape studied Yan’s face in the picture. He had black hair with occasional hints of gray slicked back from a high forehead, dark eyes, a strong nose, and an easy, confident smile. Even on newsprint there was something charismatic about the man, and reading the article, there was no question he knew how to work the press. By contrast, “da Mayor” looked tired and angry, like he’d been at this game too long. Cape knew the newspaper trade well enough to know these photos were selected to create just such a contrast, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t that far from reality.
The hanging bell chimed as the door swung open, and people in line made way for another hungry soul to enter the crowded space. Linda Katz wasn’t immediately visible over the shoulders of the other patrons, but her hair was.