The Kindness of Women by J. G. Ballard

see her, though time seemed to be running in all directions. If I was three years older, Olga was both in her early twenties and late thirties. A procession of faces had been let into the bones of her face, layers of paint and experience through which gleamed a pair of pointed and hungry eyes. I guessed that she spent her days fighting off American sailors in the backs of the Nanking Road pedicabs. Her silk suit was torn around the armpit, exposing a large bruise under her shoulder blade, and a smear of lipstick marked the strap of her brassiere. As she looked me up and down I knew that she had already dismissed my own experiences of the war.
    â€œSo … such a smart suit. Mr. Sangster said you had a good time in Lunghua. I guess you miss it.”
    â€œWell … a little. I’ll take you there, Olga.”
    â€œNo, thanks. I heard enough about those camps. All those dances and concerts. Here it’s been real hell, I can tell you. The things my mother had to do, James. We didn’t have the Japanese looking after us.” She sighed headily, swayed by the memory. She was sober, but I guessed that for the past three years she had been slightly drunk.
    â€œDo you work here, Olga? Are you the owner?”
    â€œOne day. Bars, hotels, singsong parlours, everywhere. Believe me, James, these American boys have more money than Madame Chiang…”
    â€œI hope they give you plenty, Olga.”
    â€œWhat? Well, we won the war, didn’t we? Tell me, James, is your father still rich?”
    â€œHe definitely isn’t.” The thought of money had rekindled her waning interest in me. “He’s been in Soochow camp all through the war.”
    â€œHe can still be rich. Take it from me, you can find money anywhere. Just look hard enough and give a big pull.”
    She wiped the lipstick from her teeth, appraising me anew. Already I felt aroused by Olga, as confused as ever by her changes of temper. In every sense she was more wayward and exciting than the women in Lunghua. Before the war, when I undressed, she had glanced at my naked body with the offhand curiosity of a zookeeper being shown a rare but uninteresting mammal. I took for granted now that no male body would rouse even a flicker of interest. Yet her eyes were sizing me up as if she were about to place a large physical burden on my shoulders.
    â€œI can see that you’re still a dreamer, James. I’m thinking about your father. He can make a good investment right now, while the Americans are here. There’s a small restaurant in the Avenue Joffre, only six tables…”
    She stepped forward on her high heels, stumbling across the cut-glass pendants of the chandelier. She steadied herself, holding my arm in a strong grip. Her hip pressed against mine, trying to remind me of something I had forgotten. A potent scent of sweat and powder rose from her shabby dress, a quickening odour that I had noticed in the women’s huts at Lunghua.
    I let her lean against me as we walked across the dance floor, our shoes breaking the glass. A rush of ideas filled my head as she worked her thigh into my leg. The war had accelerated everything, and I felt that I was surrounded by moving trains all beyond my reach. I wanted to have sex with Olga, but I had no idea how to approach her, and I knew that she would enjoy laughing at my gaucheness.
    At the same time, something more than shyness held me away. Part of her attraction was the thought of going back to my childhood, but if I was certain of anything it was that I was no longer a child and that the games of hide-and-seek through the streets of prewar Shanghai were over forever. Being brought up by servants, supposedly the gift of privilege, in fact exposed a child to the most ruthless manipulation, and I had no wish to be manipulated again, by sex or hunger or fear. When I made love for the first time it would be with Peggy Gardner.
    I listened to the pendulum-like motion of