How do I deal with him tonight? she asked herself dreamily, loving the night and how perfect it had been. Do I or don't I? Oh how I want . . .
Her body seemed to be moving of its own volition, now even closer, her back slightly arched, loins forward. A wave of heat swept her.
Too much heat, she thought. With an effort she pulled herself back.
Bartlett sensed her leaving him. His hand stayed on her waist and he held her against him, feeling nothing but her body under his hand, no undergarment. So rare. Just flesh under the gossamer chiffon . . . and more warmth than flesh. Jesus!
"Let's sit for a moment," she said throatily.
"When the dance ends," he muttered.
"No, no, Line, my legs feel weak." With an effort she put both hands around his neck and leaned back a little, keeping herself against him but letting him take some of her weight. Her smile was vast. "I may fall. You wouldn't want me to fall, would you?"
"You can't fall," he said, smiling back. "No way."
"Please , . ."
"You wouldn't want me to fall would you?"
She laughed and her laugh thrilled him. Jesus, he thought, slow down, she's got you going.
For a moment they danced, but apart, and that cooled him a little. Then he turned her and followed her close and they sat down at their table, lounging on their sofa, still aware of their closeness. Their legs touched.
"The same, sir?" the dinner-jacketed waiter asked.
"Not for me, Line," she said, wanting to curse the waiter for his ineptness, their drinks not yet finished.
"Another creme de menthe?" Bartlett said.
"Not for me, truly, thanks. But you have one."
The waiter vanished. Bartlett would have preferred a beer but he didn't want that smell on his breath and, even more, he did not want to spoil the most perfect meal he had ever had. The pasta had been wonderful, the veal tender and juicy with a lemon and wine sauce that was mouth tingling, the salad perfect. Then zabaglione, mixed in front of him, eggs and Marsala and magic. And always her radiance, the touch of her perfume.
"This is the best evening I've had in years."
She raised her glass with mock solemnity. "Here's to many more," she said. Yes, here's to many many more but after we're married, or at least engaged. You're too heady, Line Bartlett, too tuned in to my psyche, too strong. "I'm glad you've enjoyed it. So have I. Oh yes, so have I!" She saw his eyes slide off her as a hostess brushed by, her gown low cut. The girl was lovely, barely twenty, and she joined a group of boisterous Japanese businessmen with many girls at a corner table. At once another girl got up and excused herself and went away. Orlanda watched him watching them, her mind now crystal clear.
"Are they all for hire?" he asked involuntarily. "For pillowing?"
His heart missed a beat and he glanced back at her, all attention. "Yes, I suppose that's what I meant," he said cautiously.
"The answer's no, and yes." She kept her smile gentle, her voice soft. "That's like most things in Asia, Line. Nothing's ever really no or yes. It's always maybe. It depends on the availability of a hostess. It depends on the man, the money and the amount she's in debt." Her smile was mischievous. "Perhaps I shall just point you in the right direction but then you'd be up to no good—because you fascinate all pretty ladies, big strong man like you heya?"
"Come on, Orlanda!" he said with a laugh as she aped a coolie accent.
"I saw you notice her. I don't blame you, she's lovely," she said, envying the girl her youth but not her life. "What did you mean about debts?"
"When a girl first comes to work here she has to look pretty. Clothes are expensive, hairdressing expensive, stockings, makeup, everything expensive, so the mama-san—that's the woman who looks after the girls—or the nightclub owner will advance the girl enough to buy all the things she needs. Of course in the beginning all the girls are young and frivolous, fresh like a first rose of summer, so they buy and buy and then they have to pay back. Most have nothing when they begin, just themselves—unless they've been a hostess in another club and have a following. Girls change nightclubs, Line, naturally, once they're out of debt. Sometimes an owner will pay the debts of a girl to acquire her and her followers—many girls are very popular and sought after. For a girl it can be well paying, if you can dance, converse and speak several languages." "Their debts're heavy then?"
"Perpetual. The longer they stay the harder it is to look pretty so the more the cost. Interest on the debt is 20 percent at the very least. In the first months the girl can earn much to pay back much but never enough." A shadow passed over her face. "Interest builds up, the debt builds up. Not all patrons are patient. So the girl has to seek other forms of financing. Sometimes she has to borrow from loan sharks to pay back the patron. Inevitably she seeks help. Then one night the mama-san points out a man. 'He wants to buy you out,' she'll say. An—" "What does that mean, to buy a girl out?" "Oh that's just a nightclub custom here. All the girls have to be here promptly, say eight, when the club opens, neat and groomed. They have to stay till 1:00 P.M. or they'll be fined—and fined also if they are absent or if they're late or not neat and not groomed and not pleasant to the customers. If a man wants to take a girl out by himself, for dinner or whatever, and many customers just take the girls for dinner—many even take a couple of girls for dinner, mostly to impress their friends—he buys the girl out of the club, he pays the club a fee, the amount depends on the time left before closing. I don't know how much she gets of the fee, I think it's 30 percent, but what she makes outside is all hers, unless the mama-san negotiates for her before she leaves. Then the house gets a fee." "Always a fee?"
"It's a matter of face, Line. In this place, which is one of the best, to buy a girl out it would cost you about 80 HK an hour, about $16 U.S."
"That's not much," he said absently.
"Not much to a millionaire, my dear. But for thousands here, 80 HK has to last a family for a week."
Bartlett was watching her, wondering about her, wanting her, so glad that he didn't have to buy her out. Shit, that'd be terrible. Or would it? he asked himself. At least that way it'd be a few bucks, then in the sack and move on again. Is that what I want? "What?" she asked.
"I was just thinking what a rotten life these girls have." "Oh not rotten, not rotten at all," she said with the immense innocence he found shattering. "This is probably the best time in their lives, certainly the first time in their lives they've ever worn anything pretty, been flattered and sought after. What other kind of job can they get if you're a girl without a great education? Secretarial if you're lucky, or else in a factory, twelve to fourteen hours a day for 10 HK a day. You should go to one, Line, see the conditions. I'll take you. Please? You must see how people work, then you'll understand about us here. I'd love to be your guide. Now that you're staying you should know everything, Line, experience everything. Oh no, they think themselves lucky. At least for a short time in their lives they live well and eat well and laugh a lot." "No tears?"
"Always tears. But tears is a way of life for a girl." "Not for you."
She sighed and put her hand on his arm. "I've had my share. But you make me forget all the tears I've ever had." A sudden burst of laughter made them look up. The four Japanese businessmen were hunched down with six girls, their table loaded with drinks and more arriving. "I'm so happy I don't have to … have to serve the Japanese," she said simply, "I bless my joss for that. But they are the biggest spenders, Line, much more than any other tourists. They spend even more than the Shanghainese, so they get the best service even though they're hated and they know they're hated. They don't seem to care that their spending buys them nothing except falsehoods. Perhaps they know it, they're clever, very clever. Certainly they have a different attitude to pillowing and to Ladies of the Night, different from other people." Another burst of laughter. "Chinese call them long syin goufei in Mandarin, literally 'wolfs heart, dog's lungs,' meaning men without conscience." He frowned. "That doesn't make sense." "Oh but it does! You see Chinese cook and eat every part of fish, fowl or animal except for a wolfs heart and a dog's lungs. They're the only two things that you cannot flavor—they always stink whatever you do to them." She looked back at the other table. "To Chinese, Japanese men're long syin goufei. So is money. Money has no conscience either." She smiled a strange smile and sipped her liqueur. "Nowadays many mama-saws or owners will advance money to a girl to help her learn Japanese. To entertain, of course you have to communicate, no?"
Another bevy of girls went past and she saw them look at Bartlett and then at her speculatively and look away again. Orlanda knew they despised her because she was Eurasian and with a quai loh customer. They joined another table. The club was filling up. "Which one do you want?" she asked. "What?"
She laughed at his shock. "Oh come now, Line Bartlett, I saw your wandering eye. Is—"
"Stop it, Orlanda!" he said uncomfortably, a sudden edge to his voice. "In this place it's impossible not to notice."
"Of course, that's why I suggested it," she said immediately, forcing her smile steady, her reactions very fast and again she touched him, her hand tender on his knee. "I picked this place for you so you could feast your eyes." She