Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

I pondered what he had told me, awed by the wisdom of this decrepit old man. What more pearls were hidden inside his face’s oyster shell–like wrinkles?

Then he suddenly recited something like a poem. “The soft always overpower the strong. Nothing can be softer than water, however, nothing can destroy the hardest thing like water.”

Now he looked me in the eyes. “It’s from Laozi’s Daode Jing. I doubt a Western-educated young woman like you would have heard of this.”

“Sorry, Master.” I involuntarily lowered my head even though I knew he couldn’t see me. Or could he? Maybe through his third eye.

“Miss Lin, you may return to visit us anytime.”

Outside the temple door, Ah Hung had already arranged for coolies to take me down the mountain. “Miss, visit us when you have time. It’s quite lonely up here.”

“I will, and thank you, Ah Hung.”

He handed me the three embroidered bags. “Miss Lin, you forgot to take this wisdom endowed by Master. People are willing to pay a fortune for Master’s heavenly granted knowledge, not to mention his much-sought-after, exquisite calligraphy.”

“Oh, how could I’ve forgotten this?” I said, taking the three “poems in a pouch” from Ah Hung.

As I stepped onto the sedan chair, I tucked the small silk pouches into my backpack, a little nervous about what they might have to tell me.

Use your feminine charm.

The master’s saying rang loud and clear in my ears. I sighed. Did it mean I had to seduce more men on this journey?

After I left the temple, I headed straight back to Urumqi, then checked back into the Xinjiang Hotel. That night, I flipped and flopped in bed, failing to get any sleep. My encounter with Soaring Crane was the scariest so far, even more than with Floating Cloud, though in a different way. The monk might be plain fraudulent and depraved, but the master’s predictions and his crane soaring with all the mysterious stars were beyond my writer’s wisest intelligence and wildest imagination.

What other routes, exciting or dangerous, were written on my life’s map? And what stars glowed bright and clear above my head? I prayed they’d lead to joy, not sadness; laughter, not tears; love, not heartbreak. I prayed that my Transmigration Star would shine brightly to lead me home.

Early next morning after I finished breakfast, I booked a ticket to New York. Holding the thick papers in my hands, I first felt excited, then alarmed, wondering if I’d made the right decision to leave China in the middle of my mission, even only for a few days. However, I felt I needed this break for my mental and physical health.

In the desert, I had not been eating well because I did not take to the local food. I disliked the Uyghur tradition of tearing the nang into small pieces and dipping them into sweet milk tea before consumption. I hated the stink of lamb, but mutton is everywhere—whole roasted sheep; mutton shashlik, which is barbecued lamb pierced by a bamboo stick; steamed mutton dumplings; baked bread dough stuffed with mutton and onions; boiled noodles with sautéed mutton. I terribly missed Chris’s gourmet cooking and the endless arrays of ethnic foods in Manhattan.

I then set off for the village. Once back, I washed, wrote in my journal about my meeting with Soaring Crane and Ah Hung, then went to Keku and told her about my upcoming departure. We were sitting inside her cottage, with Mito playing by our side.

“Why go back? Village no good?” she asked.

“No, Keku, you know I love this village. I just need to take a break. The desert is too hard for me, and I’m not used to the food here so I have not been eating well.”

“Food very good in America?”

“Yes, it’s the richest country in the world.”

“Like people make one thousand a month?” She was referring to the price I’d paid for the possessed ivory bracelet that could have been used to buy two sheep, a dozen chickens, a new bicycle for Mito, and a new pan for her.

We laughed.

“You like living there?”

I nodded.

“And the young man?”

“You saw him?”

“Of course.” She pointed to her chest. “He someone here?”

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and no?” She cast me a chiding glance, then pointed to her son. “Look, Mito’s four. I married eighteen, so now old woman.”

I chuckled. “Keku, then what does that make me at twenty-nine, a grandmother?”

Just then Mito plunged his tiny body onto Keku’s lap and rubbed his round head against her ample chest. Keku smiled to her son and spoke to him jokingly in their Uyghur language.

Mito looked up at me with his big, curious eyes while uttering a loud, “Grandmamma!”

Keku and I laughed uncontrollably. After I calmed down, I took candies from my pocket and handed them to the boy.

Keku said, “Miss Lin, have a child quick. If not, too old. It’s troublesome but happy. Old woman with no husband not too bad, but old woman with no children very sad.”

As if on cue, the sun’s descent began to smear the sky with a tragic reddish orange. Was getting old that horrible a scenario? Face wrinkled, hands spotted, loved ones gone? Then Alex’s smooth and tender visage emerged in my mind’s eye, looking sad and pleading, as if reiterating his undying love for me.

“You think so?” I tousled Mito’s hair while he was busy unwrapping a candy and popping it into his mouth.

“Yes!” the son answered loudly for his mother, this time in Mandarin, his mouth full.

After my long absence, my New York studio looked familiar yet forlorn, like a neglected puppy. I made a mental note to buy some flowers and plants to brighten it up. But the first thing I did was to take a long, hot bubble bath, something that I hadn’t had the luxury of enjoying for four months. So when the scalding, fragrant water splashed generously on my bare flesh, grateful moans escaped from between my lips. As I rubbed myself hard to get rid of the dirt from the desert and the twenty-hour plane ride, I felt my body beginning to crave a man’s touch.

I wanted Alex, but I called Chris instead. And I did not want to think why.

My former professor seemed both shocked and elated to hear from me. “Lily, I could’ve picked you up at the airport. Why didn’t you call?”

“Sorry, Chris, but I had to walk two miles to get a public phone and most of the time they don’t work anyway.” This was a lie; I knew I could have found a way to call if I’d really wanted.

“All right, stay right there till I arrive.”

“What about your wife and son?”

“You let me take care of that.”

“Chris.” Suddenly I regretted the call. “I… think maybe we should stop seeing each other. It’s not right….”

“Lily, I’m very sorry about our situation. But give me time. And please let me see your beautiful face and body tonight. I miss you.”

“Do you want to see me just for the sex?”

“No, I want to see you. And, yes, I also want to make love to you.”

“How do you know I’m not with someone else tonight?”

“Someone else?” His tone suddenly turned angry and hurt. “Is he the same one you were expecting the night before you left?”

“No, I told you there was no man that night.” Although my tone also came out angry, I was enjoying Chris’s jealousy.

“Then what about tonight?”

“It’s for me to know and for you to find out.” It’s as unbearably pleasurable to tease a man who finds you so desirable as it is to finally realize he’s in fact dispensable.

“Then I’ll come. And please don’t torture me while I’m with you.”

“But wait, Chris, who’s torturing whom?”

“Please. I’ll try my best to solve our problem, just give me time.”

“Take your sweet time then.” I grunted and hung up.

I realized the reason I came back to the States was not that Chris was on my mind but Alex, even though we’d had the big fight before his departure and I still felt hopeless about our future. Since I considered myself adventurous and a risk taker, then why should I be bugged by our age difference? Because when I had my first sexual experience, Alex would have been nine years old, a fourth grader. When I’d turn forty and over the hill, he’d be thirty-two, waltzing at his prime.

In my opinion, men, young or old, handsome or plain, rich or poor, all have Alzheimer’s disease—not the disease of their brains, but their penises. Even a snake will always slide back to the same hole. But a penis’s karma is to wander and forget which hole—especially the most familiar one—it is supposed to return to.

Chris brought food and a bottle of red wine. As expected, the food was my favorite Chinese takeout, a gesture I always appreciated. To me, a man who brings hot, tasty, nutritious food to feed the woman he cares about is simply heaven-sent. So, although Chris was a man with many faults, he was also graced with this endearingly redeeming trait.

As I watched my blockbuster-novelist lover set down on my table the long-missed dishes—kung pao chicken, beef broccoli, shrimp dumplings, hot and sour soup, scallion pancakes, and fried banana—my heart was filled with a fleeting happiness. Chinese call this abundance youyu, which means “there is so much that there will be something left over”—money, food, good fortune, blessings, healthy children.

In the small studio, we ate and drank with relish, savoring the salty and saucy beef and chicken, the lip-greasing scallion pancakes and dumplings, as well as each other’s long-missed presence and energy. From time to time, Chris would put food on my plate, refill my glass with wine, and peck my cheek. However, amid the pleasant clicking of chopsticks, smacking of lips, and slurping of soup, we didn’t engage in a lot of talking as in the past. I was thinking of Alex and how to find him. Chris, I guessed, was wondering, What was she doing in China all by herself, and why won’t she tell me the reason for her travel? Does she have a boyfriend there? Will she have sex with me tonight?