Old Feng's Bathhouse

The public bathhouse at South Market has stood for more than forty years. Above the door hangs an old wooden sign, its paint long since worn away until only the character for "bath" remains legible. The curtain at the entrance is pieced together from blue cloth, frayed at the hem; whenever the wind lifts it, steam rolls out into the lane, carrying the smell of lye and pine.

Feng has kept this house for thirty-two years. He came as a young man of twenty-something, hauling water to the boilers; when the old manager left, he took over the front desk and, in time, the back-scrubbing as well. The neighbors respectfully call him Master Feng, and every time he waves it off — he cannot bear the title, just call me Feng.

Feng has a gift that a first-time visitor would never notice, but that reveals itself to anyone who stays long enough. He sits in the rattan chair by the entrance, and the moment a man drops his clothes on the counter, Feng knows whether he has come to loosen his bones or to hide from something. How? He watches the hands. A regular lays his clothes down palm-up, careless — his heart is open. One who clutches the hem and keeps glancing at the door is waiting on someone outside, or running from someone. Look closer, and the shoulders tell the rest: a man with bunched shoulders and a stiff neck carries a weight at home; one who hums in the pool has just landed some good fortune. And there are those who ask first thing, "Busy tonight?" — they fear not an acquaintance but an enemy.

The gift was not born in him. Feng likes to mutter that the moment a man sheds his clothes, only his true face remains. Clothes are skin, and in a bathhouse everyone must shed their skin. He has watched thirty-two years of shedding; how could he not know?

He remembers a long-haul driver who would kick off his shoes and doze half an hour against the pool's edge, his snores louder than the water. The man carried a foot-long scar down his back from an old crash. When Feng scrubbed him, his hands went gentle over that scar, and the driver would mumble, half asleep, Brother Feng, your hands are softer than my wife's. Feng never laughed. He only said, sleep.

He remembers too the stout woman who runs the noodle shop at the lane's end, who brought her paralyzed father every first of the month. The old man was helpless; the daughter carried it all. Feng never took their money. He said your kitchen's full of grease and smoke, come wash the bad luck off here, I ought to thank you. The woman's eyes would redden; she'd press two cartons of cigarettes on him, and Feng would pass them on to Old Zhou the bicycle mender and Widow Sun the tofu seller.

Feng keeps one rule of his own, told to no one, though Old Zhou has heard half a sentence of it now and then. What is said in the bathhouse rots in the bathhouse; it does not leave this door. A man is softest in the steam, and will pour out anything. A drunk has slapped Feng's back weeping that his son has not come home in three years. A boss has cursed his workers from the pool's edge, then sighed that he too was once the one cursed. A shy boy on his first visit curled up small, and Feng tossed him a big towel: same as everyone, we all came in bare.

Feng only hands over the towel. He does not take up the talk, and he never lets a word slip past the door. He says, a man shows you his bottom; you turn around and sell it — are you still human? On this he will not budge.

That year, in the twelfth month, the cold was vicious; the river froze so hard a brick thrown at it left only a white mark. At dusk, just as the bathhouse opened, a stranger walked in. Impeccable suit, a watch on his wrist bright enough to throw a reflection. But Feng saw at once that something was wrong — the man's hands rested on his knees and would not stop trembling, and his eyes kept sliding toward the door. Feng has seen this type too often: either dodging debt or running from a mess he made.

The stranger asked for the innermost private room and slapped three red notes on the counter, saying keep the change. Feng did not take the bait; he only handed over the key and added, it's warm inside, bolt the door.

The stranger went in, but did not bolt it. Feng brought in a pot of strong tea and, through the gap, heard the man talk to the wall: wait a little longer, leave when it's dark, and never come back. Feng did not catch it all, and did not want to. He withdrew and settled back into his rattan chair, eyes closed, listening to the water.

About an hour later two burly men came in, leather jackets, faces hard as a guillotine. One propped his elbow on the counter and asked, Master Feng, did a man in a suit come in just now?

Feng did not lift his eyelids. Thin crowd tonight, just the regulars, haven't seen any suit.

Think again. Medium build, square face, watch on the wrist.

Feng sipped his tea at leisure. Plenty wear watches. A suit — last one was a fat fellow in midsummer, ripped off his shirt and dove straight into the pool. The one you want, maybe he went elsewhere.

The men did not believe him and asked about the private room. Feng jangled his whole ring of keys. The room's empty, all the keys are right here in my hand, count them if you like. The two craned in to peer; it was dark, and Feng was so certain that they cursed their luck, turned, and went out to squat at the lane's mouth half the night.

The stranger had peeled the door open a crack and watched them leave. Only then did he understand that Feng's talk had been a wall thrown up for him. He came out, face flushed, and pulled another wad of notes from his chest to press into Feng's hand.

Feng did not take it. He gathered his keys and said, what happens in the bathhouse stays in the bathhouse. Your money's dusted with the outside world; I don't want it.

The stranger froze, his hand suspended. Feng went on, it's dark now, use the back door and go. Past this door, we never met.

The stranger looked at him long, his throat worked, but in the end no words came; he lowered his head and left.

That night Feng closed up as always, turned the water to its warmest, and soaked in the pool himself for a while. The water was hot; he closed his eyes and thought of those trembling hands. He has seen too many such hands — on the construction site, clutching wages for fear of theft; on the docks, grooved deep by rope; in the office towers, gripping a pen to sign what they could not take back. People, he thought: they tremble first, then stop, then pretend they never trembled at all.

He never saw the stranger again.

Feng kept his rattan chair. South Market later got its subway; the bulldozers reached the lane's mouth, and the blue curtain flapped in the wind. One day Old Zhou came to soak and sighed that the old bathhouse would likely be torn down, and where would Feng go to make a living. Feng gave a single "mm" and said nothing, only scrubbed the old grime from Zhou's back a little harder.

He still holds that ring of keys; the innermost one has long since rusted, but he keeps it, saying, in case someone comes back looking for that room.

A customer asked him, Master Feng, do you remember the man who hid in here that twelfth-month night?

Feng said, in a bathhouse people come and go; I only remember backs, never faces. A back is a back with its burden set down; a face is the face you must put on once you step through the door. He has scrubbed backs for thirty-two years, and the old grime he has rubbed away could fill half a room — but not one word of what those backs carried has he ever carried out.

The water heats, the steam rises, and everything dissolves. Only the rattan chair he sits in, worn glossy by use, seems to keep a silent mouth over all the secrets of the house.