“What happened? You’ve lost weight,” said the makeup artist as she helped Yan Huan adjust her clothes. The makeup artist liked Yan Huan and had a lot of respect for her; Yan Huan was the youngest among all the actors, but she was just as skilled at acting as the older, much more experienced actors. “Are you trying to lose more weight? That isn’t necessary, you know.” The makeup artist was genuinely worried for Yan Huan; the actress was only 20 years old, after all. Most people her age were still in college, but she had given that up to be an actress because she needed money immediately to support herself and her family.
“Look, there’s so much more space now,” the makeup artist lamented as she tugged at the loose fabric around Yan Huan’s waist. She couldn’t understand it: it had been less than a week since Yan Huan had last gotten into costume, but she was already so much thinner.
Yan Huan smiled wryly as she touched her arm. She had donated 1000cc of blood, it was only natural for her to be thinner now.
But this actually worked out in Yan Huan’s favor. Hong Yao was supposed to be sick in her next scene, which meant that Yan Huan was being 100% true to character. Her complexion was the right shade of ghostly white; the makeup artist did not have to put any white powder on her face. And after the sudden weight loss, her eyes looked bigger in her small, gaunt face.
It was the perfect look for Hong Yao’s next scene.
The lights, background, and props were now in place, and Yan Huan seated herself on a chair. As soon as the director yelled the cue, a faraway look began to creep into her eyes. She was in her royal blue cheongsam, and the striking shade of blue only served to emphasize the lack of color in her complexion and the tint of gray in her lips. She was wasting away, living aimlessly from day to day. One day, she would probably die in the brothel, and her entire life would then be reduced to a lonely grave and a mound of soil.
Qinjiang River, Rouge Pavilion: the place where men went to lose themselves in wine and pleasure.
Hong Yao extracted a cigarette from her case, lit it, and began to smoke. There was something alluring about the way she moved. She exhaled the smoke casually, as though she had done this a hundred, or perhaps a thousand, times before.
She puffed away at her cigarette, a wry smile on her slightly parted lips. This Hong Yao did not inspire hatred and resentment, only sympathy: everyone who saw her now pitied her for her beauty, and what she was forced to do with it.
Suddenly, the window clattered. Hong Yao heard something roll in from outside and turned to look. It was not, in fact, a something, but a certain someone she knew. She stared at the bloody, sorry-looking mess of a man who had trespassed into her boudoir.
There was a loud commotion outside. She could hear a man shouting angrily as a woman wept loudly in the background.
The man on the floor struggled to get up, but did not have the strength for it. He collapsed once more, hitting his head against the floor with a resounding thud.
Hong Yao leisurely set her cigarette in the ashtray upon the table before walking over to the man. She lifted her slender, perfect calves and gingerly stepped over him.
Bang! The door burst open, and a troop of military policemen filed in. Hong Yao was now seated at the table again, smoking languidly. The men froze in place when they saw her sultry expression; suddenly, they could not remember what they were there for.
Men were always irrationally weak against beauty. That was just the way the world worked.
Just then, Madam Huang wormed her way through the men and towards Hong Yao.
“Hong Yao, they’re accusing us of hiding a man inside Rouge Pavilion!”
“A man?” Hong Yao stood up and fluffed her hair. “Madam, is that a joke? Of course we have men here.”
The corner of Madam Huang’s mouth began to twitch.
“How are we supposed to earn a living otherwise?” Yan Huan blew smoke over her fingers. “Rouge Pavilion is full of men.”
“Search the place!”
