The passenger plane landed safely at Beidu Airport. Charles Bennett passed through security, exited the airport, and got into a taxi. He casually gave an address, and amid the driver’s banter in a thick Beijing accent, the taxi headed toward the heart of Beidu City.

In July, Beidu had no wind today—it was the season of blazing heat.

Charles Bennett got out of the taxi and stood at the entrance of a hutong. The city center of Beidu was unlike Linhai City; the closer to the center, the stronger the sense of history. There were no towering skyscrapers here, and the usual urban clamor was replaced by a weighty sense of the past.

Just as he entered the hutong, three meters ahead, an old man was playing the erhu. The old man wore sunglasses, a wooden bowl placed in front of him, and as he played, he sang freely and loudly.

He played the erhu, but sang—Qinqiang opera.

The erhu’s melody drifted leisurely through the bustling street, undisturbed by the passing crowds and cars, as ethereal as an eagle’s cry in a secluded valley; the Qinqiang opera pierced through the crowd, its voice like clashing metal and galloping horses, striking straight to the heart.

Unfortunately, though the erhu was well played and the Qinqiang sung beautifully, he just kept repeating the same line.

“That year I listened to the wind and parasol tree rain, sighing over prosperity through the misty drizzle.”

Anyone passing by this hutong for the first time would be amazed by the performance of this old blind man in sunglasses, and would inevitably toss a few coins into the wooden bowl. But to Charles Bennett, these lyrics, which he’d heard so many times his ears had grown calluses, were as tasteless as stale clichés.

Still, Charles Bennett played along. He took out three hundred-yuan bills he’d prepared in advance from his wallet and casually tossed them into the air. The three bills fluttered down, landing lightly in the wooden bowl.

Immediately, as if polished with honey wax, the erhu’s sound grew intense, and the gentle Qinqiang tune shifted, suddenly carrying the boldness of a northeastern man’s fast-talking performance, soaring to the skies.

The old blind man sang, “In ancient times, the overlord’s might shook the world, but could not match the hero’s peerless courage.”

“Pretentious! Still the same old lyrics.”

“If I could write more songs, would I still be making a living here?”

Charles Bennett curled his lip, expressionless. “Philistine.”

“With money, you can even get a fairy girl!”

“Screw you!”

Charles Bennett frowned and cursed, then asked, “So who’s the prettiest lady at Fairy Girls?”

A glint flashed behind the old blind man’s sunglasses. He replied, “Anyone familiar with the place knows—the prettiest at Fairy Girls isn’t a lady, it’s Mama Shiniang!”

Charles Bennett nodded. “Is Mama Shiniang here today?” As he spoke, his tone grew inexplicably cold.

“Shiniang is always here…”

…

Fairy Girls!

Every city has its own places of pleasure that men yearn for, and Beidu’s “Fairy Girls” was a particularly unique one. Even native Beidu residents rarely knew the name, yet in every city across Yanhuang, there were always some who knew of its existence. And whenever those in the know heard the name, they couldn’t help but smile knowingly.

It was a small hutong within a larger one, with winding alleys and stone-paved paths. Charles Bennett broke away from the crowd of tourists, strolled down the narrow lane, and stopped in front of a vermilion courtyard gate. The door was half open, as if welcoming guests.

Inside, the courtyard had a pavilion and stone benches, all of which were occupied by people dressed to the nines, engaged in lively conversation. The sound of water trickled from the rockery, lending the place an air of refined seclusion amid the city.

Charles Bennett looked on and sneered inwardly: “Dressed so prim and proper, but once inside, won’t they all be stripped bare? Please, if you’re here for pleasure, why pretend to be so high-minded?”

In the courtyard, only Charles Bennett seemed out of place. He wore a loose T-shirt, cropped jeans with slits at the cuffs, and a pair of twenty-yuan market flip-flops. Under the astonished gazes of the crowd, he strode “pa-pa” straight toward the house.

“Why doesn’t he have to wait in line?” At last, one man couldn’t hold back his indignation and stood up to question a nearby attendant.

“Exactly! There should be an order to things. We flew in from the south and have been waiting all morning without getting in. There should be an explanation.” A refined-looking young man beside him chimed in, determined to pursue Charles Bennett’s blatant line-cutting to the end.

The attendant smiled sweetly, leaning close as she poured them tea. “Sorry, gentlemen, this guest made a reservation long ago.”

At that, the two would-be “champions of justice” immediately wilted, sipping their tea in silence. Anyone able to make a reservation at “Fairy Girls” was not someone they could afford to offend.

Inside the room, the entire conversation between the two was heard clearly by Charles Bennett, who scoffed inwardly: “Talking about fairness in a pleasure house—these two really are pure-hearted. But then again, places like this are where innocent youths first experience the ways of the world.”

The faintly fragrant wooden walls and the thick carpet underfoot, so soft and springy, made every step a pleasure. The architecture of “Fairy Girls” might not have any particular style, but the subtle scent in the air and the plush, resilient carpet were more than enough to stir the deepest desires in any man’s heart.