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Once she entered the building, everyone seemed to try to get their hands on her.

A sea of men—men with round faces, men with sweaty faces, men with shirts, men without shirts.

Everyone was busy here, busy laughing, busy talking, busy yanking arms. Loudly, they shouted, Wine!

Here! More! Five dollars for ten minutes, twenty for an hour!

You got yourself a deal. First door in the back!

Anyu could feel the blood rushing to her head as she stood in an atrium painted the color of pomegranate, dodging this man and that man.

A wave of an unbearable smell, a mixture of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, engulfed her.

And suddenly, a gong sounded, deafening, followed by a voice announcing the time.

Someone grabbed her arm. A drunken face thrust at her. “How much?”

She pushed him away.

“Don’t be rude.” The drunkard dared to squeeze her breast.

She slapped the hand. “Cigarettes for Mr. Du. Where is Mr. Du?”

The drunkard mumbled and staggered away.

“Where is Mr. Du?”

“Second floor on the left. The fifth room,” someone answered.

She went up the staircase beside a painting of a pagoda hanging on the wall, dodging the customers buckling their belts on their way down.

When she reached the second floor’s landing, she heard something from a room nearby—they were cries, rhythmic, high-pitched, unlike anything she had heard before.

Unable to resist, she pushed the door wider and peered in.

A woman, naked, spread on the bed draped with red silk curtains, and a man was charging at her, standing between her legs.

The two cursed and mauled each other, the man slapping the woman’s face, the woman thrusting her legs on the man’s shoulders; they gritted their teeth, crouching, grunting; they seemed to want to beat each other to death, to tear each other apart, yet neither of them appeared to be in pain.

Anyu had never seen people couple before. This was how it was done, she realized, and it looked exhausting.

Then, suddenly, she saw the woman, depleted, sagging on the bed; a trickle of sweat, mixed with white powder and red rouge, ran down her face. The woman caught her gaze and widened her eyes. Embarrassed, Anyu turned around and raced down the hallway.

“She looked really pleased with the necklace. Did you see her face? That vamp.”

Anyu stopped. The voice came from her right, around the corner.

“Don’t let him hear you. Mr. Du loves that chick. Remember he just bought her a new villa.”

“Where is it? I haven’t been there.”

“It’s near the cinema on Fuxing Road. A fancy house with gray bricks and terra-cotta roof tiles. Miss Liao wanted something fitting her status because she’s famous.”

Miss Liao was a popular singer from a record company, Anyu recalled. Her sweet voice often graced the alleys.

“But that woman is greedy! She just got this necklace and she wants more. Mr. Du made an appointment for her with the French jeweler, what’s his name ...”

“I hate that Frenchman.”

“Bellefeuille, right. That’s his name.”

“Right now, she can get anything she wants—”

“There! Were you looking for Mr. Du? Did you find him?” An old man without a shirt appeared beside Anyu.

“Go away.” She staggered back, but too late; Mr. Du’s men were coming to the hallway to see what was happening. Their eyes met; the gangsters dove toward her.

Anyu raced down the staircase, dodging the hedonist couples making their way up, the men shouting behind her.

In a moment, she leaped into the atrium, which was even more crowded than before.

Desperately, she fought her way out, pressed between women holding fans and men holding bills, their shrill laughter piercing her ears.

Someone shoved an elbow into her ribs; someone else stamped on her feet.

Ducking lower, she used her shoulder to push through.

Once she made it to the porch, she looked behind.

The gangsters were not in sight; she had escaped.

Walking briskly past the simpering girls, Anyu came to the street and heaved a sigh.

First time visiting a brothel, and it would be her last. But it wasn’t entirely fruitless; she had learned what happened to the necklace—Mr. Du had given it to his mistress.

She wished Confucius were here and she could tell him all about the brothel, but true to his word, he had disappeared. It would be a long walk back to the shop.

She had started to walk when she felt the air shift behind her.

Turning around, she saw Mr. Du’s men lunge toward her from under the lanterns.

She bolted, but they caught her in a swoop, lifted her, and carried her to a black car near the corridor.

The car’s window rolled down, and wisps of blue smoke twirled.

“Caught her spying, Mr. Du,” the man in the collarless jacket said.

A beam of light flashed on her face. Anyu squinted, her heart pounding in fear. The man’s grip was firm, like a vise.

“Well, look at this. A little slut.” The man, reeking of alcohol, appeared in front of her, his triangular face stark white in the flashlight, his ears stretching out. “Search her.”

Two hands fumbled on her breasts. On her waist and her thighs.

“She doesn’t carry a weapon, Mr. Du,” the man in the collarless jacket said.

“No weapons. Were you spying on me, little slut?”

Anyu’s blood froze. “No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“For . . . for work.”

“You don’t seem that type.” He took out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter.

“I . . . I’m desperate.”

“You’re lying. Who sent you? The Nationalists? The Japanese?”

“No one. I’m here by myself.”

Mr. Du blew out a stinky cloud of cigarette smoke.

She panicked; beads of sweat ran into her eyes. The men looked dangerous, and they were capable of doing anything. “I wanted to find work ... but I changed my mind. I don’t want to work there anymore. Let me go.”

Mr. Du held his cigarette; the tip flickered. “You can’t just come and go as you wish, little slut. And you know well, when you see me, you bring a gift. Where’s your gift?”

“What, what gift?”

“No gift? That’s too bad. Nobody visits me empty-handed. That’s the law. You’ve broken my law. And that deserves a punishment.” He tossed his head toward his men.

The man in the collarless jacket took out something from his pocket and flashed it before her. A pistol.

“No!” Anyu struggled but was unable to escape from the viselike grip. A thought occurred to her belatedly—she should have listened to Confucius.

“Your order, Mr. Du?” he asked.

“I’m feeling generous. Nothing major. A hand will be fine.”

“Yes, Mr. Du.”

“No, no!”

Someone threw her on the ground and shoved her head against the rough surface. A heavy weight slammed on her back and pinned her down. Her right hand, her dominant hand, was yanked to the side, flat on the pavement.

Then she heard a click.

Fear penetrated her as she realized what they were trying to do. “No, no, no!”

With all her might, she wrenched herself free, just as a loud bang erupted, followed by a flash of light, blinding, bewildering, and then came an excruciating pain.

She screamed as black blood spurted from her hand, and her pinkie exploded.