Red Mandarin Dress

to change too.”
    “Thank you so much,” Peiqin said, though slightly disappointed with the general introduction. For her purpose, she needed to know something more concrete.
    The tidbits about three-accompanying girls from her other colleagues were also secondhand, vague, unreliable with their embellishments. After all, none of them had any real experience.
    So Peiqin went one step further. Through her connections, she succeeded in obtaining help from Ming River, the particular restaurant where Qiao had served for the last year. The restaurant manager, Four-eyed Zhang, suggested to Peiqin that she should talk to Rong—a “big sister.”
    “Rong, the eldest among the girls, is in her mid-thirties, a big sister with longer experiences, more connections, and more importantly, a list of those regular customers requesting the service. And she’s well-read in her way, too, especially about Chinese culinary history, which makes her popular among old customers,” Zhang said. “Some of them will call ahead for eating girls, and she helps to make arrangements. As for new customers, it’s not always easy to approach them, and her experience can be invaluable. Rong is also said to have befriended Qiao.”
    “That would be the perfect one for me. Thank you so much, Manager Zhang.”
    “But you have to get her to talk. She’s quite a character.”
    So she phoned Rong. Peiqin introduced herself as a would-be writer. Having learned from Zhang about Rong’s knowledge of Chinese cuisine, she invited Rong out to lunch at Autumn Pavilion, a restaurant known for its fresh seafood. Zhang must have known Rong well as she agreed readily.
    Rong stepped into Autumn Pavilion in a white jacket and jeans. A tall, slender woman, with no makeup or jewelry, she was not easily recognizable as an eating girl. Choosing a table in a quiet corner, Peiqin explained what she needed—in addition to an introduction to China’s culinary tradition, she would like to learn something about Qiao, so she might be able to write a short story about it. It was not too difficult for Peiqin to play a would-be writer, filling her speech with popular quotes, but she wondered if Rong really believed her.
    “It’s interesting,” Rong said. “Not too many people want to be writers nowadays. You crawl on the paper for months, and all the money you make can hardly buy a meal.”
    “I know. But I’ve been working in a restaurant for more than ten years. I have to do something different besides caring about three meals a day.”
    “You may be right about that. Now, we are sort of colleagues, so you don’t have to order like those Big Bucks,” Rong said in a crispy voice, picking up the menus. “Slices of lotus roots filled sticky rice, home-grown chicken immersed in Shaoxin yellow wine, live bass strewn with ginger and onion slices. These should be enough.”
    “What about the appetizers?”
    “Let’s have a couple of deep-fried oysters. I’m going to Ming River tonight, you know. We are here to talk.”
    “Great,” Peiqin said, glad that Rong knew better than to be an eating girl in her company. “Now, how long have you known Qiao?”
    “Not too long. From the time she came to work at Ming River. That’s about a year ago, I think.”
    “According to Zhang, you kindly befriended her. So you know a lot about her.”
    “No, I don’t. In our business, people usually don’t ask and don’t answer. She was young and inexperienced, that’s why I gave her a suggestion or two. Now that she’s dead, I don’t think I should tell—even if I knew something.”
    “Whatever you tell me goes only into the background of my story. No real names will be given. I give you my word, Rong.”
    “So it does not have to be about her?”
    “No, not necessarily.” Peiqin understood her reservation, for people could sell the information about Qiao to a tabloid magazine. “Zhang knows me well. Otherwise he would not have given your name to me. It’s just for my fictional story.”
    “Well, here’s a fictional story,” Rong said, draining her cup in one gulp and holding a golden-fried oyster in her fingers, “but with real background information about the profession. I won’t give the girl’s name. For a story, you don’t have to take it too seriously.”
    It was smart of Rong, whose insistance on its being fictional meant she was not responsible for whatever she was going to say.
    “She was born in the early seventies,” Rong started, nibbling at