When Red is Black

a karaoke club, a different one than the Dynasty as a gesture of his sincerity—he had told her that he liked her singing. White Cloud would not decline such an invitation, he hoped.
     
    She did not, but she suggested that they go to a high-class bar, the Golden Time Rolling Backward.
     
    “It’s on Henshan Road. An up-and-coming place.”
     
    “That will be great,” he said.
     
    Perhaps she did not like to be reminded of her K-girl status. He liked the name of the bar, which suggested a nostalgic atmosphere in common with the New World.
     
    They took a taxi to the Golden Time Rolling Backward, which turned out to be an elegant bar that had opened in a grand Victorian mansion; he supposed it had still been a private residence in the thirties. A number of celebrities had lived in European-style mansions in the area then.
     
    They chose a table next to the tall french window looking out to a well-kept garden just visible in the gathering dusk. The bar, according to White Cloud, was known for its classic elegance. She failed to recall the name of the original owner of the house. “She was a celebrated courtesan who became the concubine of a triad tycoon. He bought this mansion for her,” was all White Cloud could remember.
     
    Inside, it was fairly dark; the candlelight barely illuminated the somber background. After a minute or two, he managed to make out a black, old-fashioned telephone, a gramophone with a trumpet-shaped speaker on a corner table, an Underwood typewriter in a corner, and an antique grand piano with ivory keys, all of which contributed to the period effect, as well as the dark-colored oak paneling, the antique pictures and posters on the walls, and the carnations in a cut-glass vase on the mantelpiece.
     
    “Perhaps we should come in the early afternoon, in warmer weather, when the light is better,” he commented. “Then you would be able to take in all the period details. The illusion would be even more vivid and convincing.”
     
    Still, the whole scene was ingeniously designed. It was as if the life of the city had continued, uninterrupted, from the thirties. The years under Mao’s communist rule seemed to have been wiped out by the pink napkin in the hand of a young waitress, who wore a scarlet qi dress with high slits through which one could see flashes of her white thighs.
     
    The only difference from an old movie scene was that the customers here this evening were Chinese. Then a middle-aged foreign couple arrived, looked around, and moved to a table in the corner. The woman had on a Chinese-style cotton padded jacket with embroidered buttons. They were the only Western couple there. No one seemed to pay them any special attention.
     
    Studying the bilingual menu in the candlelight, Chen ordered coffee, and White Cloud, black tea. In addition, she had a bowl of popcorn. It was still too early for dinner. There were several excellent Chinese restaurants in the area. He was not in a hurry to decide whether to dine here. He was not experienced at dining in a Western-style restaurant. White Cloud was so fashion-conscious, he was not confident of making the right choice.
     
    To his surprise, the black tea came in a tall glass with a Lipton tea bag. The popcorn tasted too sweet and was as tough as rubber. The coffee was fine, but not hot enough. He had no objection to the tea bag, except that it did not appear as authentic as tea served in the Chinese way. Then he tried to mock himself out of such an antiquated idiosyncrasy. This was a modern Western bar, not a traditional Chinese teahouse. Still, he missed the feeling of the tender tea leaf on his tongue. He took another sip of the lukewarm coffee.
     
    “Americans eat popcorn when they are enjoying themselves,” she said, filling her mouth with a handful.
     
    “They eat it while at the movies, I’ve heard,” he said.
     
    What surprised him was not the poor quality of the food they were served, but that people were content in spite of it. It seemed as if the atmosphere more than compensated for anything else. For the first time, he had a feeling that the New World project would work in Shanghai. Whether or not the customers here were exactly the middle-class ones in Gu’s mind, Chinese people wanted to find new ways of enjoying life—”value-adding ways,” the phrase he had read in the introduction to marketing.
     
    As for the added value, he wondered who was going to define it. It would have to depend on one’s