Rules for Virgins - Amy Tan

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mosquito press? Each party will breed more stories in the tabloids. How you behave next week can set the course of your career. I don’t want you to act like a little girl, nor a seductress. And don’t show off your fancy Western education or your smart opinions. If you laugh, cover your mouth. You never remember to do that. No man at this party will want to see what’s ugly inside of your mouth. If the older men are becoming impertinent, call them Grandpa. Some of those old men will try to pull you onto their laps. Bastards. If that happens, I will come quickly to you to say, “Mr. Wu on East Prosperity Road is waiting for us.” I will always say that whenever I want to remove you from an undesirable situation. Don’t be stupid and ask me who Mr. Wu is.

      “The first party is for an important man named Forthright Fang. I don’t know why he is so important, but he is hosting a big banquet and wants two courtesans for each of eight men. So that tells you how important he is. It’s good for you to start out at a rich man’s party. You’ll see just how fierce the competition will be. All four beauties of our house will be there and also those from other houses. He asked if our house had a virgin courtesan, and Madam was happy to say she had a new one, fresh and naive. He was pleased and said he liked a variety of ages, for interest. Maybe he has a special eye virgins. Even so, don’t try to charm him—Madam has her on eye on him for Vermillion’s husband. If you make slight mistakes of etiquette the first time, everyone will be forgiving. They may consider it proof that you are pure and innocent. If you are terribly clumsy, stupid, or haughty, there goes any chance of a comfortable life. You’ll be lucky if Madam lets you stay on as a maid to pay your debt.

      You may not be asked to do anything special, but don’t think that means you don’t have to do anything at all. First, you must observe and learn my cues. Greet the guests, ask the customer you are standing behind whether he desires more tea or a particular dish, and then let me know. I will bring what he ordered. I doubt the host will ask you to provide entertainment, since there will be several accomplished beauties who are popular in the storytelling halls, but I’ve been taken by surprise before, and it was unfortunate. Just in case, I have come up with a story you can learn over the next week. You will tell it, while I accompany you on the zither.

      The story is about eternal youth. If it is told in the right way, any man who hears it will wish to have your youth rub off on him. The actual rubbing, of course, will not happen until your defloration. With this story, you are creating a promise for the future. Immortality. The tale has been promising immortality for over a thousand years. It is called “Peach Blossom Spring,” and even a child can recite some version of it.

      Because it is an oft-told tale, you must use special talent in performing it. Lots of expression—sadness, wonder, surprise, genuine regret, and so forth. You pause here, look there, and move your eyes sideways to increase anticipation. In my younger years, many men said they had never felt closer to immortality than they did while listening to me. Even the other courtesans said so, and they are not ones to flatter another beauty, except insincerely.

      My version went more or less like this: A poor fisherman falls asleep on his boat, which floats into a secret grotto. He emerges on the other side in a haven where people dress and speak in the style of a bygone era. The people are free of war and worry, hate and envy, sickness and old age. There is only one season, spring. The maidens are always virgins, the wine is always sweet, the peonies are always blooming. Standing on every hillside are trees whose branches are heavy with voluptuous peaches.

      “What is this place?” the fisherman asks a young maiden, and she replies, “Peach Blossom Spring,” and then pleasures him in ways he never imagined possible. (“With wine and song,” you should say with innocence. Everyone will get a big laugh out of that.) Time does not pass in this heaven on earth. It renews itself, as does his insatiability. Eventually, he regains his senses, realizing that everyone back home must be worried sick about his absence. He sails for home laden with delicious meats and fruits for his mother, father, and wife. He will tell his friends to come with him to this utopia. The boat is a leaky wreck by the time he reaches his hometown. Half the village has burned down, the pagoda has collapsed, and the people are frightened by his long, matted beard and hair. He learns that two hundred years have passed, three civil wars have been lost, and his family and friends are long dead. Sadly, he returns to his boat and sails back toward the grotto. Many years pass, and he is still sailing, unable to find Peach Blossom Spring.

      That is the story everyone knows, but I like to add on a happy ending. It goes like this: The fisherman is about to drown himself when he spots the same pretty maiden on the riverbank, eating a peach so enormous she has to use both hands to bring it to her cherry lips. She waves to him, and together they sail through the grotto to Peach Blossom Spring. Nothing has changed. The maidens. The peach trees. The weather. The contentedness. The fisherman is again young and handsome—and, of course, looks remarkably like the host of the party.

      The maiden looks like you.

      When I recited this ending, I mentioned the erotic pleasures the lucky man would enjoy. Everyone knows them. Swimming with Goldfish, Tasting the Watermelon, Climbing Higher on the Peach Tree. Often they were the ones I already knew that the host loved. But of course you should not include these details while you are still a virgin courtesan. Maybe next year. As I accompany you on the zither, my playing will help you know what you say next: a bit of glissando to signal the surprise arrival, tremolo for mounting passion, a sweep over all twenty-one silk strings for the return to the past. During the next week, I will train you to deliver every word with precise gestures of your face and body while still looking natural and spontaneous, as if the story is unfolding before you, as if all your emotions are genuine and unexpected. You will learn to use an innocent girl’s melodious voice, with its sweet trills up and down, its hesitant pace, or a mounting rush of pleasurable release.

      There is another quality to a superior performance. Some girls perform without emotion, with mere skill. They may be masters of technique, but they wear a frown of concentration. I call that style “Looking at the Arrow and Not the Target.” So boring. After three minutes, the men are hoping the story will soon end so they can return to a more boisterous evening.

      Another style is called “Plucking Your Own Heartstrings.” That kind of beauty closes her eyes and appears to be caught in another world. Her face beams with pleasure, and she might raise her eyebrows a little or smile to herself to show she is pleased with the way she is playing the music. So conceited.

      I call the third style “Floating Together in Ravishment.” This is the one you will learn. Think of the story as I tell you what to do. Follow what I do. Your eyes are partly open, your lids still weighted by dreams, and as they drift to take in the surroundings, they meet your host’s. Look at him fully with a longing gaze. Then let your eyelids fall halfway closed again, as if you have entered paradise together. Let your mouth relax, your lips part. Keep your eyes on him as your face flushes with uncontrolled pleasure. Suddenly, you gasp softly and you show uncertainty—not a frown or a grimace, but a questioning look that changes to acceptance of fate. With this dream of him in your eyes, you are being swept away. You’re an innocent girl, a little frightened because you don’t know where you are going. Close your eyes, breathe quickly, warble uncontrollably to match the zither’s tremolo. Then close your eyes and say, “Ah!” with ecstasy that devastates your senses. That means you should wear a slightly painful expression, as if you have died, but it’s a small pain, a temporary death, so don’t move for a few seconds. (No, goose head, it does not actually hurt.) Finally, let your face relax, and when your dreamy eyes meet his, he won’t be able to loosen his purse strings fast enough in hopes he’ll win your defloration.

      Understand that the story of Peach Blossom Spring is not simply about the desire for immortality. It is about the secret place in a man’s past that now eludes him, the place where he felt the most alive. When he thinks of it, he feels his life is barren and lonely. He is sentimental, regretful, and keenly aware of elapsed years.

      His nostalgia may be for a lurid episode from the days of his youth. That is typical. What romance did a married cousin initiate? Or was it an older boy who seduced him? What did he see when he wet his finger and made a hole in his young aunt’s paper window? Was she with his uncle, his father, or a boy his age? What did she do when she caught him? Did

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