The Mistress

The scent of disinfectant in the hospital was like countless fine needles, piercing painfully through my nostrils. The incandescent lights in the corridor cast a cold glow, rendering the glass walls of the special care unit ghostly white. I had just finished a transnational video conference; the cool touch of the stylus still lingered on my fingertips. My phone vibrated twice in the pocket of my suit—a schedule reminder from my assistant: a board meeting video conference to take place in half an hour. Meeting materials were spread across a stainless steel trolley in the corridor, the edges fluttering slightly in the breeze, revealing dense English reports. The cuff of the suit was suddenly gripped, the force so strong it seemed to pierce the fabric. "Sir! I beg you!" The girl's voice quivered, tinged with sobs that struck my ears. I lowered my eyes and saw the strands of hair on her forehead, dampened by cold sweat, clinging to her pale brow. The cheap cotton dress was dust-streaked, with a dark stain on the knee, as if she had fallen. Her canvas shoes had worn-down heels; a small tear at the edge revealed the reddened heel inside, speckled with dried mud. Only those eyes shone with startling brightness. Like a young beast trapped in a snare, her pupils reflected the red light of the Emergency Room—frightened and alarmed, yet still holding a faint, unyielding glow. Tears clung to her eyelashes, trailing down her cheek, lingering momentarily at the tip of her chin before falling onto my light gray trousers, leaving a small, dark stain soaked into the fabric. The weight of that single tear striking the cloth felt somehow more palpable than the billion contract I had just signed. "My mother is in the midst of resuscitation," her knuckles paling as she almost crushed my sleeve, "I am short thirty thousand for the surgery fee. Could you lend it to me? I promise to repay! I can do anything—serve dishes, wash plates—I even know how to do cross-stitch..." Footsteps echoed up and down the corridor, coming and going incessantly. A nurse pushed a treatment trolley along, the metal wheels rolling over the tiles with a steady, monotonous clatter. From the adjoining ward came the sharp, fragile wails of a newborn. I drew out a handkerchief and handed it over; it was the silk one I had just unwrapped yesterday, its corners still marked by the crease of recent ironing. I bought this during my last business trip to P City, on the C Street; at the time, I thought its pattern resembled the plane tree leaves outside the orphanage windows where I was raised. "What is your name?" "Mindy Scott." She took the handkerchief; her fingertip brushed against mine, cold and delicate. She grasped the handkerchief tightly but dared not wipe her face, as though afraid of staining it. Half her wrist peered through her fingers, so slender it seemed it might snap with the slightest bend; beneath the skin, blue veins stood out clearly, like tiny serpents winding their way. "Follow me." I turned and proceeded toward the payment counter.