Song of the Silk Road (4 page)

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Authors: Mingmei Yip

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Song of the Silk Road
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“It’s OK.”
“Hope I’ll see you around then,” he said softly, then walked away.
Good. I didn’t come to China to socialize. Time enough for that after I carried out my mission and collected my fortune.
Starting to walk and look for soldier number ten, I was faced with the problem I’d been fretting over ever since last night. How could I possibly sneak close to “him” and scrape a tiny piece of clay? Finally I approached my intended victim, unobtrusively I hoped, and regarded him intensely. Then I looked around. The middle-aged guard was now standing by the entrance staring at nothing, while his younger and shorter colleague sat on a chair, looking bored. The elderly couple was studying some of the soldiers in a far-off corner, and the two girls were giggling. The older man’s fingers pointed at the warriors, his hand gestures cutting invisible sculptures in the cool air, while the woman’s lips moved rapidly uttering oohs and aahs and other remarks, audible and inaudible. The young foreigner was now intensely studying a soldier in another far-off corner.
How could I get close to warrior number ten—he was a few feet below me in a pit and guarded by a thick rope—let alone scrape something from him? Then I remembered Chris’s favorite admonition toward the ends of his creative writing classes: “Explore your creativity and use your imagination,” he would say, tapping his head hard with his sexy fingers.
I kept racking my brain while staring at the warrior as if he were my eternal and only love. I looked and looked for a long time, fidgeting with the small knife and some coins inside my pants pocket. Suddenly, as if pushed by some mysterious force, I slipped and fell against my “lover.” With a will of its own, my hand reached to scrape a tiny piece from the terracotta soldier, then swiftly put it inside my jeans pocket.
The American youth was the first one who spotted the “accident.” He dashed toward me, trying to step down to the trough, but the young guard immediately screamed at him to stop.
The uniformed man yelled in Chinese, “Stay right here!” then rushed over to me and grabbed my arm to pull me up. Instead of offering some comforting words, he screamed, “What do you think you’re doing!”
“I’m sorry. I fell.”
Now the middle-aged guard hurried toward us, followed by the elderly couple and the two girls.
Both guards scrutinized me with narrowed eyes, ready to release long-held poison. The couple gave me a suspicious once-over. The two girls covered their mouths and giggled more.
Finally the young guard said to his colleague, “What should we do with her? Call the police?”
A smirk bloomed on the older guard’s face. “Excellent idea!”
As my heart was pounding, to my surprise, the young American moved up to the two guards, put his hands on their shoulders, and spoke in a low voice as he steered them away. The guards stood stiffly. Then, all three backs turned to us, I saw the American stuff something into the guards’ pants pockets.
Having finished their business, the three walked back toward me. The older guard waved away the four reluctant onlookers. After they left, both guards cast me a pleasing smile.
The older guard said, “Miss, sorry you fell. You feeling all right now?”
I nodded.
“Next time, be more careful.” He winked to his colleague. After that, as if nothing had happened, the duo sauntered away.
Before I had a chance to thank the American youth, he looked at me with concern. “Are you OK? Did you get hurt?”
“I’m fine. Thank you so much for helping me.” I noticed again his grayish green eyes, almost the same color as his pants.
“You sure you’re OK?”
“Yes,” I said, a little louder than I should while dusting my sweater and jeans, thinking,
Please, leave me alone!
Then feeling sorry for my rudeness, I smiled as sweetly as I could. “What did you say to the guards?”
He kept staring at me without answering.
“All right, thanks for getting me out of the situation anyway. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He smiled shyly; his face flushed a lovely pink. Then he extended his hand. “I’m Alex, Alex Luce.”
“I’m Lily Lin. Nice to meet you.”
His hand was moist and cold. Was this kid worrying about something? But I was the one who fell, not him.
“Can I call you Lily?”
“Yes, of course.”
He blushed more. “Lily, can . . . can . . . I invite you for dinner?”
I stared hard at him. It was a strange request. Did he want a free dinner from me as a reward for his help? As a kid he probably didn’t have much money, and maybe he had already spent most of what he had.
“You’re sure?” I looked at him straight.
He nodded and uttered an emphatic “Yes.”
My heart softened a little by his sincerely pleading eyes, not to mention that this kid was in fact nice-looking and appealing. “OK, but my treat.”
“Oh, no, please, I’ll treat.” His tone was firm.
A stubborn American kid.
“All right,” I said, then we started to walk toward the exit, this time feeling the eyes, not only of the two guards but also the thousand warriors, drilling holes into my back.
Afraid of seeming to take advantage, I suggested a small restaurant right next to my hotel. Only three or four tables were occupied. Bare bulbs dangled from the ceiling, from which hung yellow strips speckled with tiny blobs of black. I realized to my distress that the black spots were not some avant-garde form of calligraphy but dead flies. Would that disgust the American? I cast him a sideways glance and, to my surprise, a smile hovered on his face. Heads turned to scrutinize us as we walked to a table in the back corner. I sat down, ignoring a hostile stare from a gap-toothed man and an envious one from a garishly dressed young woman. Pasted on the wall were pink paper place mats covered with calligraphy.
I pointed them out to the young man. “Those are the menus.”
He said, “I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I major in Chinese studies at Columbia.” He pointed to the different slips and recited in slightly accented Chinese, “Stir-fried bitter melon, roast duck over rice, minced beef with tofu. I’ve had those before. Delicious.”
I looked at him incredulously. “Wow, that’s very impressive.”
Right then the plump, fortyish waitress came to take our orders. Alex Luce asked in Chinese for the minced beef with tofu, and I, soy sauce chicken.
After her generous bottom waddled away, I asked, “Alex, you mind if I ask you a blunt question?”
“Of course not.” He poured tea first into my cup and then into his, showing good etiquette.
“All right, then. Why did you invite me to dinner?” Before he could respond, I went on, “If you’re lonely and want some company, I’m not the right person for you. Anyway, how old are you and where’re your parents?”
He laughed. “Oh, Lily, I’m twenty-one, not a child. Besides, my parents give me lots of freedom. They were divorced when I was six. I’m used to doing things by myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stared at me with expressive eyes. “Hmm . . . Lily, may I also ask why you travel alone?”
“I’m afraid that’s my own business.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
Feeling guilty, I patted his hand. “It’s OK. Sorry if I sounded rude.”
The waitress brought the kid his minced beef and set it down on the table with a loud thud. Then she cast me an “old Chinese horny with young American honey” look and dragged her wide posterior away.
Seeing Alex didn’t dig right into his plate, I asked, “Why don’t you start?”
“Your dish hasn’t come yet.”
So he was waiting for me. His good manners showed he must come from a good family.
“Go ahead, please, otherwise it’ll get cold.”
“I’ll wait,” he said.
A real stubborn kid.
Then the waitress brought my food. After she left, I noticed Alex even waited for me to dig into my food before he started. I was quite impressed. After all, he was so young and this was a cheap restaurant in China, not a gourmet one in Manhattan. The way he ate with such relish also pleased me. I liked people who loved and treasured their food, whether ordinary or gourmet. We ate and chatted while clicking chopsticks, smacking lips, sipping tea. He looked happy. My mind was occupied with too many things to feel anything.
Just as I was thinking how to get rid of him soon, he said, “Lily.”
“Yes?” I was sucking a succulent chicken bone.
“What is your itinerary?”
“Today the warriors, tomorrow the Huaqing Pool, then Dunhuang, Urumqi, the Mountains of Heaven, Taklamakan Desert, Turpan, something like that.”
“Wow, that’s where I’ll be going, too!” He looked excited, then asked shyly, “Maybe we can travel together?”
I almost swallowed my chicken bone whole. To calm myself, I gulped down a big mouthful of tea.
“Awww. . . .” I choked myself on the scalding liquid.
“Are you OK?” His eyes and voice were filled with concern.
I nodded.
The last thing I wanted on this trip was to have company, let alone a kid whom I might even have to take care of. At twenty-nine, I had no wish to mother anybody.
But his declaration surprised me. “Please, let me . . . travel with you so I can watch out for things.”
I tried very hard not to laugh. The waitress, now standing in the corner, cast me another hateful look as if saying, “Now young American horny wants to get cozy with old Chinese honey.”
“Lily, you will be safer with me. I’ve been studying the grasshopper-style kung fu for many years.”
The thought of this young American pitting himself against Chinese hooligans practiced in martial arts amused me. I put down my chopsticks. “Alex, thank you, but sorry, I’d rather be alone.”
“But I am concerned about you.”
“About what?!” This time I almost spilled my tea.
“About you traveling by yourself along the Silk Road.” He nodded discreetly toward a group of men busy stuffing themselves at a nearby table. “See those men over there? I bet they’d cheat, rob, and even murder. And they’re everywhere.”
“Look, Alex, I appreciate your concern and your earlier help. But I hardly know you, and I will be quite OK on my own, thanks. So I think our first dinner together should be our last.”
Having said that, I raised a hand to signal the waitress for the bill.
Back at the hotel, I kept thinking about the strange kid. Who was he, and what did he want? Then I thought of my aunt. What did
she
want?
Under the hotel room’s dim light, I took out the tiny piece of clay I had chipped from the terracotta warrior and studied it. Why would this grain of clay be of any importance to anyone? Even if it really was a fake? Knowing I wouldn’t get an answer until I finished my journey, I wrapped it up in a tissue, put it in an envelope, and labeled it
Xian
with today’s date. Still jet-lagged I wanted to settle into bed, but I focused my energy on writing down today’s happenings in my journal, including the meeting with Alex Luce. After that, I flipped through my aunt’s instructions and planned my excursion for tomorrow—to visit the Beilin Museum to see the famous
Beilin
, Stele Forest, a field full of stone slabs on which were inscribed famous Chinese words of wisdom.
Mindy Madison, my aunt, had visited this Stele Forest and was particularly interested in the Classic of Filial Piety, an ancient text much admired throughout Chinese history. The Chinese say
yinshui siyuan:
“When drinking water, always remember where it comes from.” As children, we are supposed to be grateful for our parents, who gave us shelter, food, love, education—our very lives.
Why would my aunt want me to study this particular stele?
The next morning, still feeling uneasy from the previous day’s events—the warrior “accident” and the Alex Luce incident—I decided first to unwind by visiting the famous imperial bath, the Huaqing Pool. I threw on a T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes, gulped down a bowl of congee in the hotel coffee shop, then asked a bellman to call me a taxi.
Outside the hotel, despite the pollution, the sky was clear and blue, with a few wisps of decorative clouds playing hide-and-seek. During the long ride out from the city, there was not much to see except bicycles, pedicabs, handcarts, and the ubiquitous exhaust-spewing trucks. A few poplars stood forlornly by the road as we passed several old brick-and-tile houses and a rusting crane beside the skeleton of a half-constructed low building.
Finally the taxi pulled to a stop. I’d arrived at the foothills of Mount Li, where the famous Huaqing Hot Springs was located. Now feeling gritty and sweaty, I desperately craved a bath—private or public.
I paid a few
renminbi
and entered the reconstructed palacelike complex. I soon relaxed as I strolled by ponds with lotuses floating over carp swaying their tails lazily among weeds. As I took out my camera, a statue in the middle of a lake caught my attention. A plaque informed me that this was Yang Guifei in the Nine-Dragon Lake. This most famous of imperial concubines had bathed in the Huaqing Pool with Emperor Tang Xuanzong on many moonlit evenings a thousand years ago. Although the statue was crudely rendered, the story behind it was moving.

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