“Chris. I can’t tell you why now, maybe later. But I swear to you on my parents’ ashes it’s not a lover.”
A long silence lingered before he finally ejected a weak, “All right, then tell me later.”
I pulled him to me and started to kiss his eyes, his lips, then his… To my surprise, he pushed me away.
“Chris!”
“To leave you alone, isn’t that what you want?”
There was another long silence before I flipped off the light. Refusing to succumb to defeat, I reached out for his yang instrument, then slid my tongue, like a playful lizard, inside his mouth. It worked. Stirred, Chris pressed his torso against mine. I could feel his body heat enveloping me, then him hardening against my thigh like a mini–stone monument.
However, before his snake was about to enter its hole, a long-held question involuntarily shot out from my mouth. “Chris, why don’t we try the hanging-upside-down-lotus?”
“What!?”
“Eh… you mean you don’t know?” I assumed a nice-looking professor like him with so many sexual experiences would certainly already have tried all the beneficial positions.
Abruptly, the snake stopped moving and the hand kneading. Chris swung away, flipped the light back on, and sat up to face me. “What is this hanging-upside-down-lotus?”
“A… sexual act.”
Some silence before he slowly uttered, “I’m well aware of that.”
Then his tone turned icy cold and his eyes were shooting daggers into mine. “Lily, did you learn this from someone else and now you want to try it with me?”
“No… I… I just saw it somewhere in a book.” It was all that I could think of.
“A book? Then show it to me.”
This time no matter how hard I tried to rack my brain, no answer came. Let alone the much anticipated and needed orgasm.
Chris and I didn’t speak to each other for three days. I tried calling his work phone, even his house (making sure Jenny was working), but no one answered.
All right, so be it, since I’d be leaving very soon anyway.
I utilized the three Chris-free days to prepare for my trip—shopping (clothes, boots, hats, backpack, alarm clock, Swiss Army knife, medicine… ), going to the bank (taking out cash, buying traveler’s checks), looking up and booking hotels in Beijing and Xian (the first two stops toward the Silk Road), jogging (to maximize my energy), and gathering all the materials I could find about the Silk Road from guide books, academic books, maps, articles, even movies and novels.
On the fourth day, as I was packing and cleaning the apartment, Chris called. “Lily, I’m very sorry that I didn’t return your calls. Please understand how upsetting this whole thing is to me.” Some silence, then, “Can I come to your place tonight? We need to talk.” His tone was pleading.
“I’m busy cleaning and preparing for my trip.”
“You’re really going?”
“Do I sound like I’m lying? I told you I can’t tell you now why I have money for the trip.”
“All right, then when are you leaving?”
“In a week.”
His voice exploded like a firecracker. “So soon?! What about me?”
“You have Jenny, Preston, your best-selling novels, and your female students who’re all competing to take care of your ‘little brother.’ ”
Now the firecracker fizzled. “Lily, you know Jenny and I don’t get along, and I haven’t touched her for a long time.”
“Good. If you truly love me, then you can also abstain from touching other women for six months and wait till I come back.”
“Please, Lily, don’t torture me. I love you.”
“You love Jenny, too.”
“I… don’t think I’ve ever really loved her.”
“I hope you don’t say this about all your old girlfriends.”
“You want me to divorce Jenny and marry you? I’ll do that tomorrow. Or right now.”
Did Chris possess the ability to read minds? Could he already know about my upcoming fortune and now wanted to marry me to have a piece of the million-dollar cake?
Thinking this, I blurted out, “No way!”
“Lily, isn’t that what you want?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Chris, that’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“I… am not feeling very well. I need to rest for the day. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Before he had a chance to respond, I hung up, then disconnected the phone.
That evening, I ordered a spring roll, hot and sour soup, kung pao chicken, beef broccoli, shrimp dumplings, scallion pancake, and fried banana from My Place Shanghai Tea Garden, my favorite expensive Chinese restaurant—a rival of Shun Lee Palace. Of course I couldn’t possibly finish all this. I just wanted to savor the pleasure of watching the food fill up the table. Delicious smelling abundance always made me feel good—happy, warm, fulfilled, pampered, and now rich.
To celebrate the occasion, I put on makeup and a revealing little black dress. While waiting for the delivery, I paced around my studio, feeling a sudden wave of affection for my modest belongings in this tiny refuge on Earth: the celadon vase spilling Chinese good-luck bamboo plants, framed posters of Van Gogh’s starry sky, and a Monet landscape opening vistas in the otherwise dull white walls. My books were stuffed in milk crates that I had painted in bright yellow, red, and green, not only novels but works on some of my favorite subjects: goddesses, feng shui, energy healing, even combing your hair 108 times for health and longevity.
After my parents’ death, I had thrown away practically all their possessions, which were not many. I kept all the photographs, which were not many, either, since my father, a businessman with more than one wife, seldom came home, and my mother, who worked almost her entire life at a church, never went out for fun. I had also kept my parents’ letters, my father’s childlike calligraphy ren (till he’d strike it real big, he’d always assured us), my mother’s wedding gifts—silk scarf, jade earrings, embroidered Chinese dresses—and a few other odds and ends. Wrapped in Mother’s silk scarf, these few possessions accompanied me on the journey of eight thousand miles from Hong Kong to New York City, the place I now called home.
When I heard the delightful ding-dong! I dashed to open the door and took the food from the deliveryman. I tipped him generously to match my mood, then set out the food on the table. At the center I placed the vase overflowing with my favorite white roses and baby tears. Then I lit two candles, put on my favorite music, opened a bottle of red wine, and poured myself a full glass. I meditated on the sloshing ruby liquid, then raised my glass to the moon outside the window. To myself, I recited the Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo’s famous lines:
Among clusters of flowers, I hold a jar of wine.
To drink all by myself,
I invite the moon to join me.
Adding my shadow, there is a party of three…
When drunk, we couple; when awake,
we go our separate ways…
The last line made me think of my relationship with Chris. When drunk we coupled; when awake, he went back to his wife and kid and I to my would-be-great-Asian-American novel in progress, which I’d been writing since the first day I enrolled in the creative writing program at NYU.
“Hai…” I let out a long exhalation, toasted to the moon, then invited the disc to join me for my sumptuous dinner. Just when I was happily devouring my kung pao chicken and gulping down my soup while listening to Ray Charles’s “What’d I Say” on fucking disguised as dancing, the doorbell rang. The ringing sounded desperate, like the scream of a child who’d just lost sight of his parents.
Damn! It must be the super, who lived one floor above and had a crush on me. Since I’d told him about the trip he had found new excuses to talk to me.
I threw down my chopsticks, dabbed my chicken-greased-cum-lipstick-smeared lips, hurried to the door, and swung it open.
To my surprise, it was not my super, but Chris. In his one hand was a bunch of white roses and baby tears, and in his other hand a big plastic bag. His hair was tousled, and there were dark circles under his eyes like those of a panda’s. My uninvited guest was slowly giving me a bitter once-over.
“You’re not going to invite me in?”
“Yes. Of course.”
After closing the door, we went to the dining area, where Chris immediately spotted the feast. He dumped the big bag and the flowers on the galley kitchen counter. “Lily, you told me you’re sick so I brought you roses and baby tears and your favorite dishes—kung pao chicken, beef broccoli, shrimp dumplings, scallion pancake, hot and sour soup, and fried banana from your favorite, My Place Shanghai Tea Garden. So, what’re all these flowers and food about”—he tilted his head toward the boom box—“and the fucking Ray Charles? You expecting someone to fuck?”
“Chris! Watch your French!”
“Then answer me in plain English! Why are there so many dishes?!”
“Hmm… I thought maybe you’d come.”
“Come? Only if I’ll get a good fuck. Will I get one tonight?”
Not funny, the double entendre. I remained silent.
He spoke again, his tone softened a bit. “But my girlfriend is Chinese, people who love to eat, so I’ll always bring food. Besides, why didn’t you answer the phone? I’ve called and left five messages. Then I got panicky, thought maybe you were hurt or something.”
“I’m so sorry, Chris.”
“If someone is coming, then I’ll leave right now.”
“Please, Chris, no one’s coming. Please just sit down and eat with me.” I kissed him on the lips, but they were sealed like a miser’s safe.
We sat down.
“Lily, I want an explanation.”
“About what?”
He gestured to the table. “Why are you having such a big feast?” Then he motioned to my exposed half moons. “And this dress. Are you celebrating something, with someone, instead of with me?”
“Of course not.” I shot him a flirtatious smile, then pulled him into my arms and kissed him. “Please, Chris, you must be tired and starving, so let’s eat, and then we’ll fuck our brains out if you like.”
“All right,” he said, his eyes giving out a few faint sparkles, finally.
The meal was consumed almost in total silence, except for an occasional smacking of lips, slurping of soup, clicking of chopsticks, and sighs from Chris’s mouth.
After we finished and Chris cleaned and put away the dishes, I put my arms around his neck, pressed my body hard against his, and put up my most seductive smile, like a mistress’s. “Honey, let’s go to bed now.”
He followed me like an obedient dog—just as I’d expected.
3
Ghost Warriors and the Imperial Bath
The following Wednesday, the day before I left for China, Chris and I had another quarrel. However, canceling the trip just to indulge a man whose marital bed was occupied by another was out of the question—unless I was a complete fool.
And so on a Thursday morning in May, despite a dull headache and a pounding heart, I found myself lugging my heavy bags down my four flights of stairs, then hailing a taxi to JFK Airport. It was hard for me to believe I was finally going to China, to the Silk Road, the desert, all by myself. However, as the airport finally came into sight, fear seized my body. Would I return from the ancient route for trading silk—or vanish into its silky thin air?
During the long plane ride, I occupied myself studying my guidebooks on the different remote cities along the Silk Road: Xian, Jiuquan, Xinjiang, Dunhuang. I closed my eyes, imagining their names’ associations:
Xian—Peace in the West. This was the city’s present name, but during the Tang dynasty one thousand years ago this same city had the grander name of Changan—Eternal Peace. Would I find peace in this ancient city? I hoped it would not be eternal peace—my death.
Jiuquan—Wine River. What kind of wine? White, red, blush, Californian, French, Australian, Chinese… Would I get drunk there?
Xinjiang—New Frontier. Two years ago when I’d arrived from Hong Kong, New York had been my new frontier. I wondered what awaited me on this one.
Dunhuang—Blazing Beacon. Could I trust it to guide me?
The first city I had to visit was Xian, the gateway to the Silk Road. I reviewed in my mind what I had read about this first capital of the Chinese empire. Founded by the first emperor of China, by the second century BC, the western gate of this old capital had become the terminus for caravans from India, Persia, and Central Asia. The “Barbarians” brought glass, gold, silver, spices, gems, fabrics, and exotic animals such as ostriches to the Middle Kingdom, then returned with silk, tea leaves, jade, bronze, ceramics, lacquer, chrysanthemums, apricots, peaches, even peacocks.
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