Authors: Mingmei Yip

Tags: #Romance

Song of the Silk Road (3 page)

BOOK: Song of the Silk Road

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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.

Ghost Warriors and the Imperial Bath

T
he 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.

Among all this merchandise, silk was most treasured. This lustrous, delicate, and water-soft material was so coveted by the rich and powerful that it was used as currency, its value equivalent to gold. Before paper was invented, it was on silk that early Chinese scribes brushed some of their most precious classics.

Xian was at its peak of prosperity during the Tang dynasty more than a thousand years ago. With two million inhabitants, the city was like a tasty soup cooked with myriad spices and herbs, a cultural cauldron of races and nationalities—Arabs, Persians, Central Asians, Indians, Tibetans, even Byzantines.

It was to Xian that one of the most famous travelers in all of Chinese history, the Buddhist monk Xuanzhuang, returned from his legendary “Journey to the West,” that is, India, bringing with him hundreds of Buddhist manuscripts. As he entered the city gate, the monk was welcomed with incense, prayers, drums, and chanting by cheering and crying devotees. . . .

Before lunch was served, an air hostess handed out Chinese newspapers, and I took one. As I was flipping through pages of coverage of banal events and steamy gossip, a headline caught my attention.

CRIMINALS EXECUTED FOR SMUGGLING ART OUTSIDE CHINA

Five men—art thieves and traitors—were executed in Beijing yesterday.

All five belonged to a criminal organization, believed to be run by a black society, which steals national treasures from museums and smuggles them to sell to rich capitalist collectors in the U.S. and Europe.

The government promised to intensify its efforts to catch art thieves and will continue to deal with them harshly. Police will soon arrest several accomplices, “fishes who slipped through holes in the net. . . .”

The government also plans to send officials to the U.S. and Europe to demand the immediate return of the stolen objects. . . .

I had been feeling excited about my trip, but this reminder of harsh Chinese justice made me uneasy. I put away the newspaper and dozed fitfully until finally awakened by the welcome announcement, “Flight attendants, please prepare for landing. . . .” Weary from the long, cramped flight, I rubbed my eyes, hoping I would be tough enough for the adventure ahead.

In Beijing, I settled into a small hotel near the Temple of Heaven. After taking a not-so-hot bath, I devoured a truly hot and spicy beef noodle soup at the hotel’s restaurant, then went back to my room, forcing myself to stay awake to reread the instructions for the first part of my trip. My first stop would be Xian, the starting point of the Silk Road as well as the burial place of the famous terracotta warriors who had been uncomplainingly guarding China’s first emperor’s grave for more than two thousand years. The thought of finally seeing this famous sight excited me, but before I could leave Beijing I had to visit Lo and Wong Associates for final instructions.

I called the law firm to make an appointment, then took a taxi directly to the firm, situated in the Wangfu Jing commercial district. After entering the relatively big and clean office, I gave my name to the young receptionist and was quickly led to the office of the lawyer handling my case. Mr. Lo, a small man, struck me as a person soaked in the sea of sadness. Suffering was written all over his fiftyish, elongated, bespectacled face. Lines on his forehead and around his eyes looked like calligraphic strokes of poems expressing unrequited love, separation, even death. The sole decorations in his office were a few diplomas and a couplet in Chinese calligraphy on the wall:

One cannot possibly please everybody

But one should never betray his own conscience.

Did that mean he was a good lawyer? Or a bad one displaying this popular saying to cover up?

After having shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries like, “How was your trip?” “Fine, thank you.” “Have you eaten?” “Yes, I’ve just had lunch, thanks.” “Hope you enjoy Beijing.” “I definitely will,” and the like, we plunged into serious business.

Lo, after reviewing what I’d already been told at Mills and Mann back in New York, handed me my aunt’s complete itinerary documenting all the routes and what I needed to do at each stop.

I signed some documents, then asked the sad mask across from me, “Mr. Lo, when will I meet my aunt?”

His answer, delivered in a dry tone, came as a surprise. “Miss Lin, you will not meet her until you finish your trip and come back here to collect the money.”

“But why can’t I meet my aunt before I go? I didn’t even know I had an aunt.”

My suspicions arose afresh. Had I gone this far simply to be scammed? But why would someone pay so much money in advance just to cheat later? After all, I had nothing to be cheated out of.

Lo’s low-wattage voice again expanded into the legal air. “This is your aunt’s decision. You can find out when you see her after your trip.” He pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, then studied me through the thick lenses. “Now, pay attention. There are documents in different envelopes to prepare you for every assignment. You must read them very carefully and follow the instructions completely. They are all numbered, so open and read them accordingly. Do not open any envelopes ahead of time.

“You can explore and do other things on the trip, as long as you complete the journey in no more than eight months.” Now his small eyes began to drill into mine. “Remember, don’t try any tricks. If you do, you’ll be the one who’ll suffer the consequences. You understand?”

I nodded. This all sounded even more alarming than I’d expected. I wasn’t quite sure what the “tricks” might be or the apparently dire consequences.

“Any more questions?”

I shook my head.

I left the office with my document-laden backpack crushing my back. My enthusiasm for sightseeing had evaporated as a result of Lo’s ominous words. I decided not to explore the city but went straight back to my hotel to eat, take a shower, then go to bed.

The next day in the afternoon, after a two-hour plane ride from Beijing, I arrived at the airport for Xian, the city of Western Peace. Walking out of the terminal building dragging my heavy suitcase, I was surrounded by a crowd of shouting, pushing, smoking, spitting, luggage-hauling, yelling-at-children Chinese. After struggling through the melee, I finally boarded a taxi. During the ride to the small hotel that I’d booked, my weary eyes tried to absorb the bustle of the exotic city until I finally saw the majestic Ming dynasty bell tower in the midst of noisy traffic circling around it. I imagined the bell ringing to welcome me as it would have the emperor six hundred years ago.

The hotel room was small but not too dirty. I was elated to see a bathroom, meaning I didn’t have to use a communal one, which was usually rank, not to mention risk my much-coveted naked body being visually and mentally molested by Chinese Peeping Toms.

I took a quick shower, ate a pork and pickled vegetable noodle soup at the hotel restaurant, then hurried back to my room. Sitting on the narrow bed, I set out my guidebooks, my new notebook, and my aunt’s documents, and plunged into work.

In Xian I was to visit the terracotta warriors and scrape a tiny piece of clay from one of them—and it had to be soldier number ten. After that, I’d go to the Beilin Museum, locate the Classic of Filial Piety stele, and study its inscription. The first requirement seemed pretty weird, and the second, pointless. However, to study the inscription should be relatively easy in comparison to scraping a piece of clay from the famous warriors. That was downright scary. Would I be arrested and put in jail—or worse?

As I was perusing my instructions, a small row of characters caught my eyes:

This is not vandalism but protecting China from corruption. Soldier number ten is a fake. Further instruction will tell you what to do with the piece of clay.

The next morning, a long taxi ride brought me to my rendezvous with the warriors who had aged not at all while waiting for me for two thousand years. I arrived fifteen minutes before the museum’s opening time, hoping I’d be among the first few to be let in and that the place would be relatively empty and supervision relaxed. By the entrance only five people were waiting: an elderly Chinese couple, two Chinese girls talking about something, and a young man with a thick, curly mop of chestnut hair. I studied them as subtly as I could. All seemed harmless, except maybe the foreigner, who kept looking at me and making me uneasy. I opened my guidebook and feigned reading.

After a brief wait under the morning sun, two uniformed guards, one young and the other middle-aged with a cigarette dangling between his lips, opened the gate and let us in. The huge mausoleum welcomed me with the chill of its two-thousand-year-old air. I tightened my sweater around my chest.

Even though I’d seen many pictures of the terracotta warriors, the sight of the more than one thousand life-sized figures standing in their shallow pits was stunning. There they stood, row after row, each with his own facial expression, armor, headgear, and weapon, striking the same heroic poses for over two thousand years. Intense
qi
, energy, emanated from these handsome young men looking so alive yet so still, forcing a gasp from my lips.

A male voice rose next to me, asking in English, “You want my jacket?”

I turned. The very young foreigner was about to take off his coat.

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m fine,” I said, then turned right back to study the formidable military formation.

A few moments passed and the same voice rose again in the chilly air. “You’re a tourist?”

I turned to study the stranger. What struck me was, again, his thicket of chestnut hair—which made me think of wood shavings curling under a plane—and his smooth, delicately featured face. “Yes, how do you know?”

He laughed a little. “Because you read your guidebook in English.”

“Oh.” I silently cursed. No matter how careful you think you are, there are still things that can unexpectedly give you away.

He asked, “Where you from?”

I hesitated.

An awkward silence, then he said, “I’m from New York City.”

“Me too, what a coincidence!” I exclaimed, then hated the enthusiasm in my voice.

Even though I knew nothing about this stranger, meeting a fellow New Yorker made it all seem less unreal. The Chinese say there are four great happinesses in the world:

Pouring rain after a long drought
Running into a friend in a foreign country
Embracing your bride on your wedding night
Succeeding in the Imperial Examination

I studied his grayish green eyes, which seemed to twinkle mischievously, reminding me of the phrase “stars in the eyes.” “So you’re American?”

He nodded.

“You travel alone?” we asked simultaneously.

Then we both uttered a “yes,” and laughed.

Damn! I was here for a purpose, not to chitchat with strangers, so I said, “Nice to meet you. Bye.”

Disappointment flooded the young man’s face; the stars dimmed. “Sorry if I am bothering you.”

BOOK: Song of the Silk Road

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