Song of the Silk Road Read online

  Yes, I was going!

  There was only one person whom I needed to tell about my impending departure. Chris Adams, my creative writing professor turned lover.

  In A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens declared, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” How true for me, too, in my two cities—Hong Kong and New York. The worst of times was that I lost both my parents in Hong Kong in a year—my father of liver cancer and my mother of a heart attack not long after. The best of times was that Chris Adams, then my professor of creative writing at New York University, felt so sorry for what had happened that he let me graduate even though I hadn’t quite finished my novel, a requirement for the MFA degree. Not only that, his contact with a restaurant owner helped me get my waitressing job at Shun Lee Palace.

  This had all happened a year ago, in 1995.

  With my twenty-five-thousand-dollar income, I was able to rent a tiny, rent-controlled studio three blocks from work for five hundred a month, and I settled in my beloved city, the Big Apple. Feeling I had to repay my professor’s kindness, one day while his wife and kid were visiting her in-laws out of town, I went to his apartment, then straight to his bed.

  Of course, affairs don’t just start on one person’s initiation. As the Chinese say: “You can’t press down the cow’s head if it doesn’t want to drink.” Chris Adams and I had been flirting since the first day I took his creative writing course. Toward the end of each class, he’d ask a student to read aloud a passage from the classics—Macbeth, Paradise Lost, The Canterbury Tales, For Whom the Bell Tolls. However, when he’d pick me to read, it was always something like Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Scarlet Letter, Anna Karenina, or Madame Bovary. The message was quite obvious. The result was I’d finally become the woman who, though not his wife, shared the wifely duty of warming his bed, and—true to his class—in all sorts of creative ways.

  Anyway, I thought I had finally found some peace in life with my master’s degree, a salaried job, a roof over my head, a novel in progress, a part-time lover, and the choice to not go back to Hong Kong after my parents’ demise.

  Not since this fortune had dropped in my lap out of nowhere. Who was this Mindy Madison? Was she really my aunt? Then why did she have an American last name? How come my mother never mentioned a sister? And why would my aunt want to leave her fortune to me now? Didn’t she have any children of her own? Why hadn’t she contacted me earlier? Besides, how did she get so filthy rich?

  After I settled what Chris referred to as my cute little yellow bottom on the used sofa he’d given me, I picked up the phone. I was about to dial Chris’s office when my hand stayed suspended in midair. Should I also tell him about my upcoming big fortune?

  There were many things I liked about Chris—his poet’s face, muscular Yukio Mishima body (his hero), erudition, detached manner, knowing hands, glib tongue (you know what I mean)… but, was he to be trusted? A wife-cheating man? While the question kept flip-flopping in my mind like a fish in a dry bucket, my fingers were already hitting the keypad.

  “Chris?”

  “Yes, Lily, my China goddess, I miss you. Shall I come to your place tonight?” That’s one good thing about Chris; he never used clichés like “China doll.”

  “Where are Jenny and Preston?” Jenny was the wife and Preston the son.

  “She’ll be at the book club and Preston will be staying overnight with his buddy.”

  Chris always referred to the book club as a stupid idea for wasting time but a good one for killing it. And an even better opportunity to look for someone—to turn a lonesome into a twosome. But I assumed this was for him, not his wife—or me.

  “Hmm…” Maybe I needed time alone to ponder my three-million-dollar future.

  But Chris’s eager voice rose like a wisp of smoke emitting a seductive scent. “Lily, I’ll cook you your favorite kung pao chicken, sweet and sour pork, plus a new dish. How’s that?”

  Could any woman resist a man whose hands could write best-selling novels, cook exotic cuisine, and discover his lover’s body like an adventurer exploring an untamed land? So that night I decided to try out his new dish and maybe even the hanging-upside-down-lotus. I covered the receiver to let out a chuckle.

  Then I cooed into the receiver, “All right, can you make it at seven?” trying to sound like a real goddess, Chinese or whatever.

  “No problem. Jenny will dine with her bookies. See you soon, my love.”

  “See you,” I echoed dreamily.

  Besides literature and writing, cooking was Chris Adams’s other passion. Not only did he love to cook for me, he’d buy all the meat, vegetables, and dessert and bring them to my studio. During the evenings when he was cooking, I was treated as regally as an agent by wannabe writers. My professor lover would insist that he’d take care of everything: shopping, paying, chopping, cooking, setting the table, even cleaning afterward. And of course, all these nice acts from the market to the patisserie to the cashier to the kitchen to the dining room would naturally lead to the one ultimate place: the bedroom. Not that I had anything to complain about. Chris was an excellent lover, searching my body with his poet’s hand, then entering me like a tiger preying on a rabbit, or a dragon plunging down a ravine. But this was not without guilt—he was, after all, a married man with a child.

  That night, when we were lying in bed, exhausted and tranquil after lovemaking, I lazily stroked Chris’s soft, blond hair.

  “Chris, will you be lonely if I’m away for six months?”

  His voice, tinted with surprise, rose in the dark, sex-smelling air. “Lily, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m going away for six months.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Should I tell him everything?

  “I’ve decided to go to the Silk Road, the desert, you know, my lifelong dream.” My voice sounded controlled yet calm.

  “That’s nice. I’ve always dreamed of traveling along the Silk Road with you.”

  This was not what I had expected to hear. “I… I don’t think so. Chris, you have your wife and child here.”

  “I can make arrangements for them when I’m away.”

  “Chris, please, this is not possible.”

  “What? You don’t want my company?”

  “It’s not that… but…”

  “Then what is it? I can ask for a six-month sabbatical, you know, since I haven’t taken any leave for a long time.”

  “Chris, I have to go by myself.”

  “What do you mean you have to?”

  “I…”

  He cut me off. “But, Lily, what about your job? You just can’t quit working like that. You need money to pay your rent, buy food, travel. And the Silk Road—I thought your dream is the Sahara Desert. Anyway, why such a long trip now? You’re not an impulsive person.”

  Chris sat up and flipped on the light. He looked even more attractive when agitated. And naked.

  “Calm down, Chris. I just got another new credit card.”

  “But you don’t want to be in debt! Why do this now?”

  I had a good answer for that, just not for him. “Chris, I’m going to be thirty, so I think it’ll be now or never.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He combed his hair with his sexy fingers, stared at the calligraphy ren—patience—on the wall, then turned back to look me in the eyes, his words coming out slowly and deliberately. “Lily, are you seeing someone else, a rich guy? And you’re now traveling with him to the Silk Road?”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came.

  “Tell me, do you have another lover?” His tone was hurt and angry.

  But how could he be? That was exactly what he was doing to his wife!

  “No. I just want to go to the Silk Road and the desert.”

  “But why now? And why by yourself?”

  “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 finall
y 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.