(Thanks to Blake for the feedback and edits along the way - much appreciated)
When I visit Shanghai I stay in a quaint, old-style hotel in the French Quarter in Pu-xi. Pronounced poo-shee; it is the older part of town west of the river. There are plenty of sparkling new hotels these days, especially down toward the Bund or across the eastern side of the river - but I've never been taken by chain-hotels, even the best of them. There is something interesting about independent hotels, they usually have an unplanned and impossible-to-replicate quirkiness. The Yongjia Chalet is just the place.
If I hadn't lived in Shanghai in the past, I would never have known the hotel was there. It doesn't come up on the first few pages of any Shanghai hotel search and even TripAdvisor has ignored its existence. So now when I come back for business, it's my regular place. There are some great bars and restaurants nearby, especially Cotton's on Xinhua Road, a gorgeous old home turned into a pub and beer garden.
On this particular trip I was in for two weeks. I arrived Sunday around lunch, I was staying until the Sunday afternoon a fortnight later. My company's office and training rooms were three stops away on the subway system. I had a relaxed Sunday evening, I slept early and well. I didn't need to be in the office until after lunch on Monday, so I had time to do emails and prep all through the morning.
I showered, dressed, and went along the hall to the elevator down to breakfast. I was all the way inside the lift when I remembered I needed my breakfast ticket. Luckily the door hadn't closed. I threw a finger at the 'open' button just in time, apologizing in English to the old couple in the lift. I know the Chinese word for sorry, but struggled to get it out in my mini-panic. I noticed a girl in a robe come around the opposite corner and dash to try and get the lift I just left, but in my rush did not pay attention to the result.
By the time I went back to my room, picked up the breakfast ticket from the far bench and got back to the lift, the girl was still there. She must have missed it. The hall area was super quiet and awkward, just us two standing there watching the numbers go from G to -1, then -2, i.e. the carpark underneath. I stepped back slightly to get a better look at my waiting companion. Where was she going in a bathrobe? As I looked, her hair was long and she used it to cover the side of her face toward me, hiding, so I could check her out without her noticing. The more I looked, the more I sensed she was not comfortable. She wasn't entirely steady on her feet, as if she was tired or hungover. And she had no shoes at all. Back home I would have thought nothing of it, but in China it was a bit weird. I leaned forward to see if she was Chinese. I couldn't really tell, but I expected she was. Her body type seemed Asian; her legs were long, her hips small, her shoulders square and jet-black hair. Back home she would have been short but in Shanghai she was probably a taller than most girls. I couldn't get a feel for her age, but her hands looked young, perhaps late teens or early twenties. You never could tell with Chinese women. Only their face ever gave them away, if you looked at just the body - naked or dressed - it was difficult to tell, especially if they were fit.
The lift sat forever at -2. Who would build a hotel this size with only one lift? Not one of the big chain-hotels, certainly.
The girl in the robe went forward and pressed the down-button ten times, rushing it. It worked to move the number from -2 to -1 but there it sat again, for longer than you would expect. It must have taken twenty pushes to get it from -1 to G where it was again stuck for an annoyingly long time. The girl was clearly anxious and it rubbed onto me. I sighed loudly in sympathy. Robe-girl with her bare feet checked all the corridors in all directions for stairwells but the only one near us had an open-the-door-and-set-off-the-fire-alarm sign on it, in both English and Chinese. She clearly thought it over but decided to keep button-pushing instead. Walking around, I could see her face. She was local and she was young. And gorgeous. Chinese people tell me that only Americans think Lucy Liu is beautiful, that Lucy is the West's view of pretty Chinese - but not China's. China considers Chinese beauty to be Zhang Ziyi, someone less sultry and without the cats' eyes. I fall on the side of my people; I like Lucy. And the woman so nervously pressing away at the lift near me looked like a beautiful young Liu.
As the lift slowly ran up the numbers to 5, I heard a door open down the hallway, around the corner to the left. I could hear what seemed like two guys speaking British English. My girl in her robe lifted her intensity on the button, fairly jumping up and down, urging the lift to move and get here. She was clearly terrified of whatever and whoever was down that hall. The talking continued but seemed to be stationary, like they were standing at their open door. The girl in the robe was completely stressed, I was beginning to worry for her. To add to the bedlam, her robe had loosened. She was too concerned with looking over her shoulder and up at the lift numbers to notice. I could see her right breast; she had nothing under there, not on top at least. She wasn't big, but not exactly small either; it was a gorgeous Asian breast. Both the tension and my penis rose. The door finally closed and the guys started to move our way. The lift was about to arrive, but I wasn't sure we could get in it and shut the door in time to avoid the extra passengers. The girl's panic was starting to scare me, too. Perhaps these guys really were bad?
One feature of really old lifts is they give a super loud 'ding' before they arrive. When it went off, both of us jumped out of our skin. I had become as nervous as the girl. As the ding echoed down the hallways, the guys in the passage yelled out 'wait' and sounded like they broke into a trot. The lift doors opened but, in my judgment, there was no way we could get in and get them closed before the guys coming around the hall would be on us.
So, I acted.
My girl was moving toward the lift as the doors began to open, but I stepped in assertively and grabbed her by the arm. Without asking and without consideration for discomfort, I pulled her around the corner to the opposite hallway, toward my room. We were just in time. I saw the first of them run into the lift area as I went around the corner. Fortunately he was too busy concentrating on getting his hands into the lift doors. He didn't see me. I put my finger to my lips, the universal "shhhh!" Then I stood behind the girl and pushed her down the hall to my door. I tried to be as calm as I could, opening the electric lock and pushing us in. The guys never looked down my hall, or if they did it wasn't until after we were in my room.
"Shit!" I yelled a whisper. What had just happened? The girl in the robe was clinging tightly to me, safe behind the closed door. "Are you okay?"
The girl shook her head and started crying. Did she understand what I said?
"Do you speak English?" I asked, holding her head to my shoulder. She didn't talk, just nodded, sobbing.
We stayed that way for some time.
The first thing she said was, "My things."
It wasn't exactly perfect English, she had a strong Chinese accent, but it was English. I knew what she meant.
"In that room still?"
She nodded into my shoulder again.
"Who are they? Are they dangerous?"
The girl didn't respond at all.
"Are they scary to women?"
This time she nodded profusely.
"Are they scary to men, too?"
She didn't answer. She didn't know. They probably weren't. From the brief glimpse I had of one of them, he was relatively small and maybe university age. The accent was British. British guys in a hotel in Shanghai. Probably tourists passing through; though how they found this hotel was a mystery. Chances were the beauty in my arms was a prostitute. She didn't look or feel very old in my arms. She probably hadn't been on the game long.
"Okay," I breathed. "I've probably got one shot at this. What did you leave behind? Just the important stuff. What do you need the most?"
I could go and talk to the hotel staff, or she could, but knowing China that would cause a complete stink. I was meant to be in the office by 2pm. That was still a few hours away, but if the hotel security and police were called, they wouldn't just let me go off so easily. And the girl in my arms, assuming she was a prostitute, there would be all sorts of trouble for her.
I pushed the girl away from me, telling her "Wait."
The guys back in that room probably hadn't seen a Singapore Permanent ID card before. I took it out of my wallet and placed it in the picture pocket over the photo of my childhood puppy. Swishing around, it looked official. It had enough Chinese writing on it to be confusing.
"Okay. Listen to me. I need you to stay here. Shut this door. Do not go out. Do you get it? Do not go out. Nod if you understand."
The girl nodded, holding her robe together.
"What do you need?"
