My name is Feorinda, but my friends call me Fay. I am a third year student at University, with a double major, seeking a double BA in Women's Studies and Social Work. I had it all mapped out, I had the scholarships, the bursaries, and even strong lines on jobs post grad since my work experience semester was with the Ontario ministry office my uncle works out of. Everything was on track, until the Book.
I worked part time at Ching Wu's Gallery, it is an upscale place on the edge of Chinatown where the amount of wasted space around an object served as a warning about its potential cost. Ching Wu was a hard eyed old man, with eyes colder than a December ice storm, but an amazing gift when it came to presentation. I was very quietly learning so much from him, as Ching Wu placed everything in the whole store just the way he wanted it, channeling people, controlling where they looked, and building their moods. There were hooks placed, odd out of place items to catch those who were drawn to a particular item, these were the ways he, and later I, knew a potential client for a special piece was in the store. One of those items caught more than the customer, it caught me.
Ching Wu's China was not the China of today, cheap goods and quick deals. Ching Wu was selling a China that probably never existed, a China of ancient mysteries, timeless spirituality, and captivating sexuality. Why he hired a blonde female assistant I did not at first understand. I mean I had the art background to understand his pieces, and I had a decent grounding in Cantonese, and a smattering of Mandarin, but when I first attempted to speak in his presence he forbid me to ever utter "Those golden sounds from that pale stuttering mouth."
My accent apparently offended his ears. As a condition of working their I agreed that if I ever spoke any Chinese language (he said Middle Kingdom tongue), then I would work the rest of the day and all the next one in the ball gag. He pointed to one of the odd devices that hung in the dark stained and intricately carved cabinet in the reserved private display room in the back. I agreed, because this job paid very well, and its location was close to the school and easy to get to. I know, as a Woman's Study and Social Work major that his language, tone and bearing were relics of the sort of ugly sexism that we had been stomping out for a century, but for reasons of expedience I agreed.
There was a big green book, bound in leather, which lived alone on the long glass table before the private display room in the back. Once or twice a month, a customer would come in, nearly as cold eyed as Mr Wu, and open the book to the page that was marked with white silk, indicating what was in the back room for special guests to examine, and if lucky, purchase.
When Mr Wu and a guest were inside the room, I admit my curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the book. Inside were photographs of women, bound with ropes, or odd devices in a brutal display of male power and sexual dominance.
The poses had an artistry to them, the light and shadow, the rare splash of colour that stood in stark contrast to highlight the truth, a white girl bound for punishment, or for amusement of cold eyed Asian masters.
I was deeply offended, but my eyes caught the helpless look in the girls eyes, biting her lip as if determined to keep from crying out, and yet her nipples were hard as rocks, and her sex was open as a flower desperate to be sampled. This was misogynistic, racist bullshit.
Turning the page I saw...
A post stood, carved in ebony, with scenes of Asian men using and punishing women in various states of dress and nudity that made it clear they were from the Colonial Period, perhaps from the ill fated Boxer Rebellion to expel the Europeans. Chain bracelets were on the post, and whips hung from it, but the red headed girl who knelt before it was secured only by a while silk scarf, wrapped around her neck, and tied to the pole.
