The last of the shooting was done. Thinking of the coming farewell, I felt sick, as if a secret wish that had been cherished was going to be aborted. As I lay on the bed in my hotel room, I warned myself that the crew would soon be dispersed. The movie Red Azalea would be done. The Supervisor would be gone. Nothing more would happen to me. My effort would be wasted, like a ripple in that lake. A sudden sadness rained inside of me.
I was lying on the hotel bed wrapped up in thoughts of the Supervisor when the costume designer came in. She was a pleasant woman of about thirty who had the face of a Buddha. She told me that Cheering Spear had invited the Supervisor for a farewell dinner in a Russian-style restaurant near the lake. She suggested that we go to visit a Buddhist temple hidden in the mountain range in the east of the province. My mind kept picturing Cheering Spear and the Supervisor sitting together chatting. The costume designer told me that the temple was best known for granting wishes. I did not care about the wishes, but I needed to get out of the room.
Looking up from the foot of the mountain, the temple was located in the middle of the clouds. A carved-stone stairway led up to the temple. The stairway was narrow. It could only hold one person. It felt like walking in a stone glove. The inscription on a memorial tablet said it took four generations of stone carvers to complete the staircase.
Tiny old ladies, toothless, carrying food bags, were making their way up. They bowed, heads hitting the stone stairway at every step.
The costume designer and I finally arrived at the temple’s gate by three o’clock in the afternoon. The temple was entwined in ivy. The air was chilly and filled with the smell of jasmine. The smoke from a huge bronze incense burner lingered and drifted around the shoulders of the worshipers. Through a long hallway there was an altar, carved from sandalwood. In front of the altar a line of primitive-looking stuffed dolls, about three hundred of them, male and female, painted colorfully, were sitting under the feet of the Buddha statue.
An old lady, hairless, her body totally soaked in sweat, got on her knees. Her face was coated with brown mud from the bowing ritual. She took out a red-and-green-colored stuffed doll and a ballpoint pen, and wrote some characters on the back of the doll. She put the doll in the rank and bowed to the Buddha statue endlessly. The sound of her head hitting the floor remained in my ear for a long time. I slowly approached her doll to take a look at what she had written. It said: Dear God of Birth. I have taken a doll from you and you granted me a marvelous grandchild. Now I have made another pretty doll to give back to you. I can never thank you enough. Your sincere follower. Mother of your child Big Bolt.
My fingers were trembling as I went to light the incense. For the first time, I sincerely bowed to the Buddha statue. I did not know what to wish. I rose to look at the statue. Tell me what to wish, I prayed. In the smoke I was shocked to hear my heart say, Please, Buddha, make me strong, make me strong. At that moment I realized my weakness. It was a weakness over the intrusion of a particular man. I got up in panic: I realized that my heart was longing for the Supervisor. I looked around and tried to find the costume designer, but she had disappeared. I kept looking. Suddenly, my eyes met his, the Supervisor’s. He was in the crowd, his eyes following me. He looked away the moment our eyes collided. I made a move. Men and women with the stuffed dolls in their hands kept rushing in. They bowed, acting with abandon, as if no one was present. The sound of their praying spread and mixed with the sound of monks singing.
Another wave of people floated in. The number of stuffed dolls on the altar increased. The sound of worshipers getting down on their knees, the sound was loud like beating drums. I was pushed by the human flow to the back of the altar, where there was a wall of a thousand statues of the Buddha prophets. Painted ceramic clouds filled up the scene, under the prophets’ feet, on their palms, around their heads. A running deer with a red ribbon around its neck; a straw basket of peaches. A floor-long white beard swaying in the breeze. The smiles obscure. A realm where senses are disfigured. I turned as my whole being was absorbed by a gazing, a gazing from behind me, from him, the Supervisor.
I lost my mind in the clouds. My hand reached back toward him as if acting of its own will. I was dragged by it. It swam through the crowd’s layers of flesh and suddenly was touched and tightly held by the other hand.
Without looking, I knew it was he. I looked at the statues of the Buddha prophets, hearing my heart cry out in joy.
As the crowd moved through, the hand let go. I turned around to look. About four feet away, he stood, as if nailed there, looking at me. He was deathly pale. Everything began to fade in front of me but his bright almond eyes. The deer with the red ribbon began to run, the peaches swayed low on the branches, the prophets continued their obscure smiling.
Two men in security-guard uniforms appeared. They rushed through the crowd and approached him. They spoke to him, looking around. They asked him whether he was well. He shook his hands impatiently and pointed them down the hill. The men were polite but refused to leave. They stood, locked. He turned toward the sky, chin tilted up. I saw extreme sadness in the almond eyes.
The costume designer reappeared. She complained about my slowness. She said she had made a wish for herself and felt much better now. She suggested we go to the dark underground cave, the Yellow Dragon Cave. It was said that millions of years ago a dragon died here and the narrow tunnel of the entrance was the shell of its intestines.
The cave was crowded, packed with humans who held jasmine in their hands, women who wore jasmine around their necks and in their hair. The Supervisor was following me, I suddenly noticed. And the two security guards were behind him.
The costume designer cheered when she saw the crowd. What fun! she said, and asked someone where to pick the jasmine. She pushed the crowd with her shoulder toward a light ray by the exit yards away. She said she must hurry and pick the jasmine before it was all gone. The passageway was so narrow that the unfamiliar bodies were jammed and squeezed together. The sour smell of sweat mixed with jasmine. I moved toward him. I hoped that he would hold my hand again. I hoped hard. I waited. The smell of jasmine grew stronger. He moved closer in the crowd. The two men disappeared. He was next to me. Our breaths touched. I offered him my hand. He did not react. He did not grab my hand. Petals of the destroyed jasmine were all over me.
I blamed myself, my silliness. But my silliness was powerful. I was ruled by it, commanded by it. Yet there was my will. I purposefully avoided toasting with the Supervisor at the last dinner party, held on a large boat carved with images of dragons and phoenixes. I toasted with everybody else. I toasted with Cheering Spear and Soviet Wong. Farewell and take care, my lips opened and closed mechanically. I told myself everything would be gone forever in a day, so stop hoping and snap out of it. I drank with the crew.
Cheering Spear was drunk. She began to sing a children’s song. She sang “Pulling the radish, pulling the radish” and she laughed down to the floor. Getting up, she vomited. Soviet Wong went to take Cheering Spear to her room. The celebration continued.
The Supervisor acted as if our fingers had never touched. He smiled at the crew members. He faked it well. He unbuttoned his blue Mao jacket. He wore a white shirt inside. His long, fine fingers held a wine glass. His cheeks were red and the color made his skin look like a young woman’s. When the head of the lighting crew, Big Tai, challenged him to a drinking contest, he accepted.
The crew cheered and gathered around the table to watch. Big Tai was a huge, strong man of about fifty, a bachelor who had always adored the Supervisor. He praised him as the most beautiful man he had ever seen, and said that he would do anything to be close to him. People had warned the Supervisor not to get too close to Big Tai because he had weird problems—he was always finding excuses to make trouble for girlish-looking men.
The Supervisor took a glass of rice wine and drank it down as Big Tai took his. Their glasses were filled again by the crew members. I hid myself in a corner where the light failed to reach, f
eeling my mind getting stiff. Big Tai was a good drinker. The Supervisor’s face, after three toasts, was as white as a Japanese paper doll’s. The crew members waited excitedly for a good time. They quieted down after the Supervisor and Big Tai emptied their fourth glasses.
Big Tai suggested they go fishing off the boat. The costume designer laughed on her way to borrow equipment from the man who drove the boat. Big Tai pulled out two fishing rods and gave one to the Supervisor. Shaking, the Supervisor took a small piece of food from his plate and stuck it on the hook. They threw the hooks into the water. The boat advanced smoothly.
From the distance a goose cried. The costume designer said it was mating season. The geese liked to mate under water, and always at night. The male goose had beautiful feathers, magnificently colored, but the female was plain, like a duck. They licked each other’s necks after mating. It’s terribly disgusting, said the costume designer.
Big Tai leaned back in the chair, his face swollen. His eyes seemed so small, smaller than the eyes of a fat rabbit. He put his glass down and reached out his hand toward the Supervisor’s face. He laughed, showing his silver tooth. He said that he thought the Supervisor was more beautiful than a woman. He asked, Why are you a man? You shouldn’t be a man—you ruin your looks when you dress like a man.
The Supervisor suggested a refill. Toast! Toast! The crew members encouraged. After the fifth glass, Big Tai began waving his arms and kicking his legs in the air. The Supervisor said there was a fish on the hook. He had heard a sound and was sure that a big fish was caught. Big Tai walked with difficulty toward the rod. He fell into the water while pulling the fish up. The costume designer got a huge net, and the crew members helped to get man and fish out of the water.
The Supervisor turned around. He caught me watching him. He walked toward me. I found myself shaking, about to vomit. I smelled jasmine and was reminded of the afternoon at Yellow Dragon Cave. I went to the costume designer and helped pull Big Tai back onto the boat. Big Tai was sleeping soundly despite the pulling and dragging. Water came out of his mouth. The crew members laughed and laughed. Those almond eyes were fixed on me. I stretched my facial muscles to laugh with the other people.
The next morning the bus was ready to take off back to Shanghai when the Supervisor stepped on. I lowered my head, pretending that I was checking my notes. He came near, then sat down behind me. He asked for the total number of the takes we shot at the location. I did not reply. I knew I didn’t have to. I knew he didn’t really want to know the numbers. We sat in silence. The bus took off in the heat. The crew members sang a song about being a wanderer. Cheering Spear gave everyone farewell cards she made herself with paper cutouts and pink ribbons.
We reached Shanghai in the afternoon. The bus stopped at the studio’s front gate. The Supervisor stood up and shook hands with the crew members one after another. He wished everyone good health and a good life. The crew members wished him a safe trip to Beijing. When his hand reached out for mine, I did not give myself a chance. I refused to suffer this closeness. Letting his hand hang in the air, I stood up and got off the bus.
I quickly pulled my bicycle out of the parking lot. The back tire was flat. I decided to put up with it. I rode toward the gate. The wheels rolling over the dry maple leaves on the pavement made cracking sounds. Something pulled me from behind. You’ve got a flat tire. It was his voice. Never mind about it, I said without turning my head. He refused to let go of the bicycle. I turned around. He made an effort to smile. Say a nice goodbye, he suggested. I looked away. He said, People are watching us. I said, I know they are. The nasty, lusty pigs, he said.
I was suffering. I couldn’t help myself. I began to pedal again. He let go of my bicycle and said, I want you to meet me at the Peace Park tonight at seven-thirty.
I sat by the window, my thought drifting. I did not hear my mother calling me for dinner. I did not hear anything but the crawling sound of my thoughts. I went to a desk and quickly pulled out a pen and a notebook. I tore a piece of paper from the notebook. I could not write what I wanted to. My mother came. She held my hands. She said, You are hot. She suggested I take off my sweater. I did. I looked at my mother and suddenly found that I was so much like her. I had inherited her stubbornness. I inherited her passion. That I must live for myself was in my veins. Even if it were only a dream, so be it.
The Peace Park was located next to Dragon Sight Crematorium. It was a park with few visitors. Most people who came here were mourners, the relatives of the dead. I felt safe in the dark. Getting off the bus, I looked around. The smell of incense wafted over from a nearby cemetery. I made sure that I was not followed. I paid five cents at the gate and entered the park.
The quietness was extraordinary. Trees and leaves were thick as walls. I wandered in between the trees as I fixed my eyes on the entrance. At eight o’clock I saw him. He came up to me from behind, dressed in black. We went into the shadow of the trees where the lights were like the eyes of ghosts. We stopped, facing each other, by a big tree trunk. He said he had been here since seven. He was glad that I had come. I said that I was glad too. We ran out of words to say. We walked toward the thick trees. I could hear my heart beat.
Have you packed? I searched for words. Yes, he answered. His voice was unnatural. When does the train take off? Four o’clock in the morning. Well, I said. Well, he said. You must lead an exciting life in Beijing, I said. I did not know why I said it. Exciting, true, where murderous intentions lurk behind charming smiles. He shook his head. He slowed down his steps and said, You won’t understand that part of me. No one would. I asked, Not even your wife? Oh, my wife, he said. My wife is a very lovely person. But she wouldn’t be lovely to me if she knew the difference between the public self and the private self, the nature of my desire and my ambition. I want you to know me, though. He took my hands and said, I think you will. He stared at me. I could not see his eyes. I saw the shadow of his head. I was facing the light but he was cast in shadow. Looking at me, he put his arms around me and turned me around so that he was in the light and I was in shadow. I looked at him boldly because I knew he could not see my eyes. I looked at him. I looked at the contours of his face. It aged, second by second. He was penetrated by sadness. His expression sagged. I am a lonely person, he said. I thought I was used to it, but I am not. Can’t you see?
My arms went around him. I felt, as I felt him, Yan’s skin. I touched him and said, I am at your service. He quivered like a young tree in a storm. He embraced me. He said softly, Let me have it, let me have you.
His lips were tender. Tender like a naked lichee fruit. My heart drank its sticky juice. Do you want to know my name? he said. No, I said. I do not want to know your name because we don’t plan to see each other again.
He wet my cheeks. In his firm arms I found my thirst. We stood under the thick osmanthus tree, covered by its sweet smell. There was noise rising in the distance. A group of people with flashlights approached our direction. They were guards of the city criminal-control patrols. We split and retreated into the shadows. I leaned against a tree trunk when the broom of flashlights swept past me. To my surprise, as I followed the movement of the beams of light, I saw human figures in the bushes. Not a few, but many. Heads glued together, whispering in the dark.
The Supervisor and I walked around the park like wanted criminals. After the patrols passed, we went behind the park’s bulletin board. The board was filled with pictures of the criminals, thieves, men and women caught in the action of infidelity. Around the pictures were articles of public criticism.
He walked behind me and kept about ten feet away. We tried to find a place to sit down. But all the benches in the wooded area, next to the bushes, in the shadows where the ghost eyes did not gleam, were occupied by couples. Each bench had three couples, facing in opposite directions. Nobody bothered anybody. They were all busy minding their fiery business, whispering and cuddling.
We finally discovered a quiet spot behind the public restroom. We crawled into
the bushes and lay on our backs on the grass. The darkness beckoned me. I asked him to sing to me from a favorite opera. He hummed in my ear:
Standing by the fence,
The woman is thinner than the withering flower.
She wove her love into a fabric.
The scarf she made was worn out by a stranger.
She was an old woman when her love was young.
He said suddenly that he sensed I had a lover. He asked if I could describe him. I sat up. I was dumbfounded. Facing my uneasiness, he whispered, rubbed the words with his tongue. It’s all right, he said. He told me that ripeness was important to him, and anything I confessed would not change the way he saw me because he was boiling with desire for me. He desired to taste my hunger for passion.
He waited for my answer. He did not know that he was loading bullets in my gun. I smelled the smoke even before I pulled the trigger. I hesitated, then said that I’d had an affair but it was not with a man.
I heard a long silence. Slowly, I could feel him recover from the shock. Was she your choice? His voice was astringent. Yes, and no, I said. But it would not have made any difference if she were a man. Where is she? he asked. At Red Fire Farm. I don’t know exactly where. I owe her my life. He said, Is that so? I asked him whether I should confess the whole story. He said I did not have to. I said I didn’t mind. He said he would always be willing to listen but preferred to hear the story some other time. I told him I appreciated his understanding. He said it was too early to appreciate anything. Tea tasted the best at its second pouring.
A fever rose when hunger took its course. The hands, though forbidden to go under the clothes, measured intimacy in body heat. The skin radiated. Pleasure swept over our flesh and made our souls sing.