Read Online Dream of the Blue Room by Michelle Richmond - Free Book Online

old men who accompanied her song with handmade string instruments, and when she was finished you had the option of spending the night with her on the boat. If you both agreed, the old men would disembark, the girl would put out the lamp, and you’d be left alone with her.”
    “You talk as if you’d been with one of the singsong girls yourself,” I say.
    Graham winks at me. “Maybe I have.”
    I imagine Graham floating down the silver river, lulled by the sound of the singsong girl’s voice, the flicker of lights. I imagine him shuddering under her touch. There are no flower boats now, and the voices of the singsong girls, were there any here today, would be drowned out by the din of harbor traffic and the train rumbling over the bridge. The stream is almost clear though, and the occasional gum wrappers, Baiji Juice bottles, and tattered shoes that float downstream seem benign in comparison to the immense volume of garbage that litters the great river for which the Chin-huai is destined.
    Graham leads us through a series of narrow lanes to a small storefront with a ceramic Buddha hanging in the doorway. A young couple sits at one of the tables, talking quietly. Two teenaged boys are smoking cigarettes by the window. They all turn to stare when we walk in. The owner greets us with laughter. She stands on her tiptoes and slaps Graham on the shoulders.
    “I met her on my first trip up the river,” he explains, “and I’ve been coming back to this restaurant ever since.”
    The woman chats for a minute with Graham, then gives Stacy, Dave, and me a good looking-over. She touches Stacy’s hair and feels the fabric of my dress, then gestures to show that she thinks Dave has very broad shoulders. She says something to Dave. Graham translates. “My friend wants to know how much you earn per year.”
    Dave shrugs. “We get by.”
    Graham translates the exchange. “How much exactly?” When neither of us answers, he laughs. “Get used to it. You’ll find that everyone in China wants to know how much you make.”
    The woman seats us and shouts back to the kitchen, and immediately a young girl brings out a platter of boiled calamari. Within minutes large dishes begin appearing: pork in a rich red sauce, rice noodles with shredded beef, spicy green beans, tofu with diced chicken. She brings us two warm bottles of Tsing Tao beer, which she pours into four glasses.
    “Jenny tells me you do business in China,” Dave says.
    “Used to,” Graham replies. “Crane safety. In the eighties, with Deng Xiaoping’s reforms, the whole country went wild with construction. New shops and apartment buildings started going up all over the place. Loads of money to be made by foreigners and Chinese businesses alike. My company’s job was to make sure the cranes were safe for the workers.”
    “What made you get out of the business?”
    “The Three Gorges Dam. The government was extolling the virtues of the dam, and people were making money hand over fist. I admit I saw dollar signs, just like everyone else. But the more I read about the project, the more uncomfortable I felt.”
    “Isn’t the dam supposed to create power?” Dave asks. “Control flooding?”
    Graham shrugs. “That’s what they say. And maybe, to a small extent, it’s true. But, ultimately, the cost is too great. I’ve been up and down this river dozens of times. I can’t imagine just plugging it up. It’s all very sad.”
    The conversation dies out. Around us, the sounds of the city: On the street, hundreds of bicycle bells jingle. Vendors shout at passersby. A group of elderly men just outside the doorway slap mahjong tiles onto a table and tick off their scores in loud, excited voices. Occasionally they burst into laughter. Beyond the red curtain that separates the dining room from the kitchen, dishes crash. Stacy eyes her beer without drinking it and I shift a fish head around on my plate. The dead eye gazes up at me. Graham seems lost in thought. Dave,