Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

Shaking off the water as best I could, I slipped on my clothes and shoes, slung my backpack over my shoulder, then walked away from my supposedly private “Jacuzzi.”

Alex was standing a few feet away next to a rock, his eyes blinking under the hot sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Hi, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Suddenly feeling the heat, I said, “Let’s move away from the sun.”

“I’m going to the Stele Forest. Would you like to join me?”

I nodded, unknowingly breaking my vow of solitude.

I had not expected that things would feel so different with Alex’s company. Now instead of trying to take advantage of the Beilin Museum to learn more about Chinese calligraphy as I’d intended, I found myself more engaged by a nice-looking twenty-one-year-old young man than by the museum’s exquisite collection of stone tablets.

As Alex and I wandered through the museum, my heart was beating wildly, not of course for the two-thousand-year-old stone tablets inscribed with poems, sacred texts, imperial edicts, and Chinese Classics, but rather for the adjacent, bewitching ball of energy next to me.

To show I was serious about the exhibits and because my aunt specified I was to read this particular stele, I drew Alex’s attention to the large stone that dominated the room—the Confucian Filial Piety Classic.

Looking at the immense black granite slab standing on a thick base carved with mythical animals and exotic plants, I felt a wave of happiness.

I always loved things big. Big bowls of rice and congee, big chunks of meat, wide slabs of fish with a huge head and eyes round like marbles. I always preferred having a big sofa to sit on, or a roomy high-backed chair where I could meditate with legs crossed. I liked to work at a wide table where next to my computer I could pile bricklike stacks of books, spread out my novel in progress, and arrange my assortment of stationery—pens and pencils in my lunch-box-sized case, boxlike pencil sharpeners, a big stapler to bind inch-thick documents, even erasers I’d certainly lose before finishing using.

I also liked Chinese calligraphy done in grapefruit-sized characters, Beethoven’s heroic Fifth and grandiose Ninth Symphonies, Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel where you have to swing your head in all the four auspicious directions to take in the whole creation….

Then Alex began to read the famous text aloud in Chinese, waking me from my reverie. His voice sounded studious, yet light-hearted. I half closed my eyes to let the soothing sound waves ripple against my eardrums like dragonflies skipping on water.

When he finished, lamenting that his recitation had to meet its inevitable end like everything else, I asked softly, “You’re enjoying this?”

“Yes, very much. I would like to study this classic more.” He cast me a questioning glance. “And you?”

“I’m not fond of Confucian moralizing.” I paused to search his glowing face, then, “Not that I’m unfilial to my parents even though they’re dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK, Alex. But what makes you so interested in the filial piety classic?”

“Because I want my parents to be proud of me,” he said, blushing.

That was not really an answer to my question.

“You mean they’re not?”

Again, he didn’t answer my question directly. “They’re divorced and both remarried, so we don’t see one another very often. But once in a while Mom, Dad, and I have a big reunion.”

“That’s nice.”

“I believe they divorced because of me.”

“How?”

“It’s too complicated to tell you now. Let me take you to tea.”

I looked directly into the young man’s grayish green eyes. “Alex, you’ll soon go broke if you pay for every stranger you run into.”

A smile bloomed on his face, sweet and innocent like a child’s. “Don’t worry. Let’s have tea, please.”

I insisted that, instead of going to a teahouse—fancy or simple—we should just look for a place nearby to sit down and talk.

Outside the museum, we walked for a while and soon found a bench in a quiet corner shadowed by a heavy-foliaged tree.

We sat down. Alex looked me in the eyes and uttered softly, “Lily, I was adopted.”

The statement came as a surprise. “Oh….” I didn’t know what more to say.

“It’s OK.” He covered my hand with his for a moment, then went on. “My mom and dad had been married for years, but Mom could not conceive. So they decided to adopt. Dad’s friend, a gynecologist, told him about me, a perfect baby, whose mother had a healthy pregnancy—no diseases or drugs. She was Chinese from Taiwan—a theater student.”

So he was half Chinese—I wondered, what was the other half?

He chuckled at my intense scrutiny; now his eyes appeared the same shade as the temple roof in the far distance.

“Something funny, Alex?”

“No, ironic. I was an extremely coveted baby for a couple desperate to adopt. But my own mother didn’t want me.”

“Do you know why your Chinese mother gave you up?”

He shook his head while staring at an elderly couple playing with a chubby toddler under that far-off temple roof.

“What about your biological father, you know anything about him?”

He turned back to me. “Only that he’s American.”

So Alex was Eurasian—he seemed to have gotten the best from two ethnicities.

He went on. “Even after they adopted me, my parents still tried to conceive. But it never happened, and so they began to fight and ended up divorcing. Then, somehow, they both had children with someone else.”

This was a story even juicier than my Chinese family saga novel in progress. But I hid my smile and asked instead, “Then what happened?”

“After their divorce, I lived alternately with Mom and Dad, their new spouses, and my two sort-of half brothers.”

“Do you get along with them?”

“I know my place in their families.” His voice came out low-watted.

I put my hand on his shoulder, then, feeling his body heat, quickly withdrew it.

He looked happy again. Was it due to the physical contact, brief as it was?

“Your parents nice to you now?”

Alex lowered his head, thinking. Silhouetted against the clear, distant sky, his profile was etched in the air like a haiku—simple, crisp, sharp.

“Yes and no. I believe they still care about me, but I also think they care more about their biological children, although they try not to show it.”

“Do you know where your biological mother is?”

“No. Only that after she gave me up for adoption, she went back to Taiwan.”

I remained silent, not knowing what more to say.

Suddenly his face lit up. “Soon my parents will be visiting me here in China for a few weeks.”

Poor kid, he looked so happy just to have a few weeks with his parents, not even blood relatives.

Some silence, then I asked, “Alex, what are you doing here in China?”

“Sightseeing, but mostly trying to improve my Chinese.”

Moments of silence passed, then he asked again, “Can we… travel together?”

“No, I can’t.”

“But why not, since you’re traveling alone?”

Yes, why not? My aunt Mindy Madison did not specify that I couldn’t make friends during my journey. I was still very tempted to have him along for company, but I hardly knew him. What if he learned about my inheritance?

Though my heart was melting, my voice came out firm. “Hey, Alex, look, you seem to be a smart young man. Very nice, too. But I’m older than you. You’re just a kid, and this is a kid’s fantasy. You need to find someone your age.”

“I am not a kid and you are not old.”

“I’m twenty-nine, and you’re only twenty-one. Alex, please, I don’t want to take care of a younger brother when I have enough problems myself.” Of course I couldn’t tell him the real reason—my inheritance. I swallowed hard.

“That doesn’t matter. I like you and want to travel with you.”

I blurted out, “Jesus, Alex! Stop being ridiculous and acting like a child!”

“Stop calling me a child!” he retorted.

A young Chinese couple walking out from the museum turned to stare at us.

A long, awkward silence.

Finally I said, “Alex, we’re basically strangers.”

“You’re a traveler, an adventurer. I am, too, so I think we’re very compatible.”

I gave him an annoyed look. “But you have no idea why I’m traveling and what I do when I’m not traveling.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

This kid was really persistent. And annoying.

“Alex, I really don’t want any company. Please accept that.”

He cast a dour glance at me, his expression frozen. “You really mean that?”

“Yes!”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“All right then, good-bye.” He stood up abruptly and walked away.

After a few steps, Alex turned back to stare at me, his eyes fierce and sad—seemingly awaiting a signal from me to return. But I waved good-bye, hardening my heart like the thousand-year-old stone tablet we’d left behind in the museum.

I felt more than a little sad and guilty. Now I wished I hadn’t discarded Alex Luce as if he were my old calendar, or my worn-out running shoes. The kid did seem genuinely concerned about me and wanted my company. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a young man’s company, if not for his youth and beauty to feed my vanity, at least for some pleasant background noise to fill my vacuity? But I warned myself—a dessert-sweet romance should be pushed to the bottom, if not totally off, of my Silk Road menu. What I should be putting on the table now was nothing but the financially nutritious entrées—Dunhuang, Xinjiang, the Mountains of Heaven, Turpan, and finally the Go-In-But-Never-Come-Out Taklamakan Desert.