Peach Blossom Pavilion (60 page)

That night I didn't close my eyes. My mind was swirling with scenes of the failed murder. Why had I missed Fung's heart? I kept asking myself but no answer came except my own sobbing. Like a wounded animal, I crouched, waiting for dawn to drive away the darkness.

I couldn't stay in Shanghai, and so Peking would be my refuge. At least my mother-or Mother Wonderful Kindness Abbess-was there. I'd either find a small inn or, with her consent, stay in Pure Lotus Temple. Then I'd plan my next move, though I had no idea what it would be.

The next morning I arose while it was still dark and hired a car to North Station. The sky was the color of diluted ink; a cold and dank mist hung sadly in the air. Even though it was only five-thirty in the morning, a crowd was already milling in front of the imposing facade.

Vendors stood guard next to their baskets and screamed at the top of their voices.

"Fresh donut and congee!"

"Pig's feet! Smoked fish heads!"

Children held on to the hems of their mothers' clothes; men hauled luggage with determined expressions. A young woman was combing her daughter's hair. Next to them stood two big brown suitcases-like huge dogs guarding their mistresses. A young couple jumped off from a rickshaw. The man dropped a few copper coins into the coolie's calloused hand, then half-pushed the woman toward the station's entrance. The coolie, after letting out grunts, squatted down on the curb, took out his long pipe, and waited for the next customer. I noticed a big scar-the color of a dead pig's snout-peeking through the hole of his filthy, padded pant. His feet were two big barges anchored on the dusty asphalt sea.

Who were these people and where were they heading? I wondered how many of them had a purpose in life. But a goal can turn into a nightmare. Like mine, in which I was now shivering in front of the train station, trying to flee from my bleak Karma. I hurried inside the station and bought a third-class ticket, hoping to merge into the crowd like a drop of water falling into the sea. Trying to look as unlike a mingji as possible, I had not put on makeup and was dressed in a worn coat and the rough clothes Qing Zhen had bought for me with his begged money.

I found the track, boarded the train, and squeezed my way along until I found a seat, luckily, next to the window. The thirdclass car stank: human sweat; piglets, chickens, and ducks knocking around in small cages; children's urine. I spotted people picking their noses and spitting on the floor and felt a distaste so strong that it took all my willpower to suppress a rising nausea.

Finally the train started forward, the cold breeze from the window helping only slightly to dispel the odors. And then, the sun made its gentle appearance, lighting and warming up the air. I dozed off for a while, and when I awoke, the train had stopped at a small station. Through the window I could see tides of people, flowing as if pulled by irresistible forces.

As the train started to move, from the corner of my eye I saw a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man hopping onto the train. His large eyes and square jaw looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him.

In a few seconds, the man materialized in my car. Since many people had gotten off during the brief stop, there were now a few empty seats. He looked around, then to my surprise, came and sat right across from me. Perhaps he recognized me from a past meeting. Or maybe he was a former one-time customer whom I failed to recognize. Then an ominous thought entered my mind-was he one of Fung's men sent to harm me? As my heart began to pound, the man cast me a few curious glances, then took out a book and started to write.

My heartbeat accelerated. Was he writing a report about me? But I tried to comfort myself that this intelligent-looking man didn't seem to be the kind of person who'd work for Fung. I kept stealing glances at him, thinking maybe he was a writer.

Then, when we finally caught each other's eyes, he smiled apologetically, then returned to his notebook. My palms began to sweat and I decided to move to another car. But when I picked up my luggage and my qin and started to stand up, I saw that the man was not writing, but sketching-me.

Suddenly a light went off in my mind and relief washed over me. I put my things down as I sat back onto the seat. "Are you Mr. Jiang Mou?"

The man looked up, his eyes searching mine. "Yes I am. But how do you know my name?"

It was such an involved story that I didn't know how to respond.

He went on, "Have we met somewhere?"

"Yes."

Now he studied me with great interest. "You do look familiar, but I can't think of where we might have met."

"I'm Hu Xiang Xiang. We first met ten years ago at the yuanxiao Festival in the White Crane Immortal's Hall."

I could see he was straining to remember.

"I was with Sister Pearl. She introduced me to you. She also told me that if I was lucky, you might agree to paint me someday and make me very famous. Remember?"

"Yes, now I remember. But you've changed so much-"

"But of course, Mr. Jiang, many years have passed! "

We stared silently at each other, digging up old memories and wounds.

I said, measuring my words, "In Pearl's last letter, she said that in case I'd run into you someday, she wanted me to tell you . . ." Suddenly I felt so angry at this man's callousness that I wondered if he deserved to be told about Pearl's love.

He leaned forward a little. Now I could see that his eyes were turning red.

"Tell me what?"

"Tell you that you're still ... the man she loved the most."

Upon hearing this, Jiang Mou's voice cracked. "I miss Pearl ... so much."

I sneered. "Then where were you when she needed you the most? Why didn't you at least send her some words of comfort?"

"Was that what Pearl thought, that I'm so heartless?"

I nodded.

"When it happened, I was in Peking, painting on commission for a rich patron. I knew nothing until I got back to Shanghai. Not until a whole month after she. . . died. I felt heartbroken when I learned about this. But then there was really nothing that I could do." He stopped, then spoke again, now looking happier, "Thank you for telling me what Pearl said."

I felt my anger dissipate. Under the morning light streaming in from outside the window, I could see what had attracted Pearl to him: broad forehead, square manly jaw, and an intense, artistic air.

After I finished telling him the details of Pearl's death and burial, he sat silently, melancholy hovering on his face. Then he asked me what I'd been doing during the years since we'd last met. Of course, I left certain things out, particularly the reason I was now leaving Shanghai in a third-class railroad car.

After I finished, Jiang Mou studied me meaningfully. "Xiang Xiang, I want to do something to atone for Pearl and carry out my promise.

"What is it?"

"To paint you."

"In oil?" The words oil painting were rarely heard in China. My heart raced. It would be such an adventure to be painted not in ink, but oil!

He nodded. "I have a rich patron in Peking who has rented a studio for me. I can paint you there."

Jiang Mou told me he could complete the portrait in only three days if I was willing to pose seven or eight hours each day. Since neither of us had empty time to pass (I had to find Mother and he had to fulfill his commission), the arrangement was agreed upon right away.

The next day as we arrived at the Peking station, I got Jiang Mou's studio address and bade him a quick farewell. Instead of going to look for my mother in Pure Lotus Temple, the first thing I did was to make my way to a cheap but decent inn which I'd found near Wangfu Jing in my earlier wanderings in the city. After I checked in, bathed, and changed, I dined on a large bowl of dan dan noodles, then took a rickshaw to Jiang Mou's studio. The address he had given me turned out to be an old house in Wangfu Jing that had been divided into apartments. I dashed up to the fifth floor and rang the bell. Jiang Mou opened the door and let me into a spacious room nearly empty except for a canvas mounted on a stand and a table covered with painting paraphernalia.

He stared intently at my face. "Should we start right now?"

I nodded. Though we had not discussed it, we both knew it was to be a nude portrait. So, as soon as I was settled, I began-without consulting him-to peel off my clothes as if I were still in Peach Blossom Pavilion. Fortunately, the room was heated by two braziers. I twisted my body, trying to find the perfect pose. Jiang Mou slightly rearranged my limbs and torso. To my disappointment, he looked at my body without recognition. I didn't mean that he looked as if he hadn't seen me, but rather, as if my body stirred no passion, aroused no desire in him. Was he that professional? But I, too, was a professional-in pleasing, seducing, arousing. Then why, now that we were in his studio, did he succeed in his profession while I failed in mine?

Finally I found the perfect pose-my right hand behind my head, while my other hand rested on my yin part, with my pubic hair sprouting from underneath my lacy fingers. My breasts protruded, as if eager to be fondled, caressed, kissed.

Jiang Mou cast long, steady glances at me before he started to sketch on the canvas. He'd lift the charcoal stick to measure, then attack the canvas with sweeping movements, with the charcoal making harsh, scraping sounds. The first day was only for sketching; it was not until the second day that he started to paint. In order to catch the right quality of light streaming in from the window, Jiang Mou worked fast. Paint, as if enamored of the artist, clung to his robe, fingers, face, hair. I dared not utter any sound, fearing the slightest distraction would cause a wrong move of his brush.

Now and then he'd also stop to jot down notes about what color to use, places of shadings, positions of my arms and legs, and the like. So after I went back to my inn, he'd continue to work.

On the afternoon of the third day, Jiang Mou added a few details and corrected some minor mistakes. Finally, as it was getting dark, he set down his brushes, then turned the easel around to give me my first look at the finished work.

I was fascinated by what I saw. Jiang Mon had managed to add sparkles of mischief to my eyes. The lifted corners of my lips conjured the image of an uncurling lotus. The contrast of my dark hair against my fair skin seemed to express some profound insight into my personality. And the rich, vibrant color in oil!

Now that he'd set down his brushes, Jiang Mou's eyes regarded me quite differently-I'd come back to life as a woman.

When I was trying to put my robe back on, he held up a halting hand. "Xiang Xiang, just leave it, please."

I stared hard at him, letting the robe slip down onto the floor like leaves falling in an autumn breeze. Now I was standing completely naked in front of a man. It might seem hardly worth mentioning since I'd done that nearly every day for all of my adult life. But this time it was different. A dragon was twisting inside me, struggling to break away from the confines of my body. Now I remembered Pearl's telling me of her infatuation with Jiang Mou. Suddenly I was seized by a strong urge to experience Pearl's feelings. I wanted to re-create the night in the temple of the haunted garden where I'd first witnessed the balance of yin and yang, the mating of heaven and earth-an artist and a prostitute enacting the ageless act of passion.

I wanted to live through Pearl's emotions.

I wanted to be Pearl-at least for a few moments.

Slowly I walked toward Jiang Mou, Pearl's former lover, and reached for his face. He immediately pressed his mouth against my palm, then I felt his tongue caress it with long, wet strokes. He let out an almost painful moan as his jade stalk hardened against me.

Jiang Mou carried me back to the sofa where a few minutes ago I had been posing and gently pressed me down. Swiftly he stripped off his clothes, then knelt beside me sucking the same nipples and licking the same navel he'd just so subtly rendered. Then, like a panther, he lunged on top of me. I heard myself moan as his hands slid under my hips, lifting me up to better fuse with him. Now too aroused to balance the yin and yang, instead we toppled that balance. Fumbling frantically, we fell off the sofa and rolled onto the floor, knocking over a small table. Brushes and tubes of paint flew around. A jar leaped off, spilled oil on our bodies, then slunk away to a corner. As Jiang Mou's jade stalk thrust deep and hard inside my golden gate, I let out a long, animal-in-slaughter scream. As he began to thrust harder, I dug my nails deeply into his back, until he suddenly gave out an inhuman cry and went limp on the body he'd just so perfectly commemorated with his brush ...

I lay beside Jiang Mou, my mind empty in a half-sleep. Then gradually, my sense of where I was returned. I knew, and I was sure he did also, that this losing of our souls was our first and last time. I was pretty sure that when we'd been making love, his mind had been filled with Pearl just as mine had been on my only love, Qing Zhen. Not that Jiang Mou bore any resemblance to my Taoist monk lover; nor did Ito Pearl. We had only used each other to once again stir these hopeless passions.

Yet, perhaps this was my most satisfactory affair. A brief afternoon unspoiled by futile wishes for permanence and a beautiful painting that would last forever. I rose up, dressed, took the painting that Jiang Mou had wrapped for me, and left for my simple hotel room.

We never saw each other again.