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Unmoved, he replies, “Then you should have had it earlier.”
While I add honey in a vain attempt to mask the bitterness of the tea, Rafe walks over to the clothes. He picks out the dress with the empire waist.
“Wear this,” he says, then unpacks a pair of slip-on sandals. “And these.”
I don’t respond right away. This is more than awkward. First, no one has ever told me what to wear. Not even my mom. Second, no one has ever bought me clothes except my mom, and that stopped once I was old enough to shoplift what I needed. Third, this is happening with a gangster who may or may not have me offed in six days.
You belong to me,he had said.
If I put on his clothes, does this mean I’m complicit in being his property?
He raises his brow as if he knows I’m hesitating.
“Let me finish the tea first,” I reply, not sure how I feel about being bossed around.
He looks through the other clothing items. They seem to meet with his approval.
“You’ll need new underwear, too,” he says, placing a lacy brief near the dress.
My cheeks burn.
“I would guess that most women aren’t keen on wearing the same pair of underpants for more than a day,” he remarks.
Now my whole face is red because Iamwearing the same pair from yesterday.
“Unless you prefer to go commando,” he adds.
I donotprefer to go commando, but this is not a topic one normally discusses with a man they barely know.
Finished with looking through the clothes, he turns to face me. “Done with the tea?”
I throw down the rest in one gulp.
He smiles. “Good girl.”
I bristle, finding his compliment patronizing.
“Now get dressed,” he orders. “I’ll show you the East Gallery.”
Since he doesn’t look like he’s going to budge, I take the clothes, including the underwear, and go into the bathroom to change. I slip on the lacy underpants, which are my size. The dress and shoes fit surprisingly well, too.
“Much better,” Rafe says when I step out of the bathroom.
“Did Vladimir get these?” I ask.
The question amuses him. “I have other assistants. If Vladimir did the shopping, you’d either end up with an extra-large t-shirt or a Vegas girl outfit.”
He opens the door and gestures for me to go first. I follow him to a beautiful gallery with enormous skylights and a bamboo garden in the center of the room. Acting as docent, he tells me a little of the history behind the art pieces. I love the scrolls with Chinese calligraphy, which he translates for me. One of them, a poem, was done by his great-grandfather. The paintings range from a reproduction of Tang Yin’sClearing after Snow on a Mountain Passto an original by Wu Guanzhong, who was influenced by Post-Impressionist art and blended Western and Chinese styles.
“Most of his early works were destroyed in the Cultural Revolution,” Rafe explains as we stand before a landscape of a city with steep hills, “which makes this painting of Chongqing quite rare.”
“I can’t wait to see the exhibit of art from the Tang Dynasty at the Asian Pacific Art Museum,” I say.At least I hope I’ll still be alive to see it.
Pushing aside the negative thoughts, I ask him, “Are you planning to see it? Supposedly there are some private pieces that have never been displayed in public before.”
Rafe moves to a painting of plum blossoms. “Yes, I know about the private pieces. They are on loan from Mr. Haruto Matsudo, a successful businessman. Among them is a jade figurine of Madame Yang, a famous courtesan. It once belonged to my family.”
“Really?” I ask. Although Rafe speaks with a detached tenor, I sense there’s more to his words.
