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A tiny old woman dressed in loose black cotton pants and a white cotton shirt perched on the edge of a cot, destringing China peas. Her face was as wrinkled as a dried plum and her teeth were few. Seeing Hulan, the old woman jumped to her feet. “Huanying, huanying! Welcome, welcome! Have you eaten yet?”
“I have, Auntie,” Hulan said, using the polite honorific.
“Tea then, you must have tea.” The old woman shuffled across the room to prepare the brew. Hulan stood quietly while the woman did her tasks, knowing that good manners required them to go through this little ritual.
Once the tea was steeping, the old woman turned to Hulan and clasped her hands together. “Inspector, you are as beautiful as my grandson says.”
“Who’s your grandson?”
“You’ve met him. He works in the lobby at night.”
The old woman poured some tea into a dirty cup, swirled the liquid, and dumped it on the floor. Then she poured fresh tea into the cup and handed it to Hulan. The cup was still dirty, but Hulan took a politely noisy sip. “Xiexie.”
The old woman motioned to the cot. “Sit.”
Hulan did as she was told, and the old woman sat so close that their thighs touched. The top of the woman’s head came to Hulan’s shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come see me,” the old woman explained. “I am Wang Meiling.”
“You are related to the owners of the guesthouse?”
“Landlord Wang and my father were third cousins.”
Poor third cousins was what the old woman meant. Poor third cousins who’d been used as servants ever since
Wang had made his fortune, which probably accounted for why this old woman was still alive. During Liberation, the lives of servants, even if they were related to the worst landlords, were spared, unlike those of wives, children, and concubines.
“Do you live here?”
“My room and my job are together. No one goes through this gate unless they pass by me. Good for me at my age.”
“And your grandson?”
“All the Wang descendants live here. My son is the day manager. His wife runs the laundry. If I live long enough, maybe I’ll see my great-grandson in the great house.”
“It’s good for family to be together,” Hulan observed.
“Good today. Not so good during the Cultural Revolution,” the old woman sang out hotly in a quavering voice. “The villagers got mad like it was 1949, not 1969. They thought we were the landowners. They killed my husband in the courtyard.” The woman nodded, remembering. “So much blood in this house, but we stay. Where else would we go, hey?”
“You’ll have to move when the lake begins to form.”
“How are they going to make me move when I see so much death in this place? I lose four babies here—two girls, two boys. Only one son lives. The rest, all dead. You hear about the concubines? I was here that day. I was here the day they killed my husband—same way too. Cut off his head. Your name is Liu Hulan. You understand what I’m talking about. Some people they call a martyr, some people are bad elements.”
“You know why I’m here?”
An amused cackle filled the little room. “Is there anyone in Bashan who does not know why you’re here? Drink your tea. I’ll tell you what you want to know. You want to ask me if I can be trusted to watch the gate. You wouldn’t use those words! You’d be more polite.”
“Is that so?”
The old woman nodded somberly. “Everyone says you respect workers, not like Captain Hom. He is as corrupt and corrupting as phlegm-filled spit in a bottle of baby milk.”
“I guess you know everything, Auntie.”
“I know who comes in and out of here!”
“Does anyone else watch this entrance?”
“Not necessary!” When Hulan didn’t say anything, the caretaker asked, “You think maybe I fall asleep on the job? Not possible!” She didn’t appear insulted, just adamant.
