The Valley of Amazement (44 page)

Magic Gourd came at that moment to tell me about my pre-planned urgent message. We walked out of earshot. “I’ll stay. He’s interesting, and the poem he just recited is surprisingly moving. I want to recite it tonight. It may increase interest in me.”

“Is he a prospect?”

“He has the thin pocket of a last-century scholar. But he may keep me amused.”

“My stomach is still churning, so it’s home for me.”

I returned to Perpetual’s side, and his eyebrows rose. “What’s this? You’re not using polite excuses to desert me?”

“I want to hear more of your poems.”

“I don’t dare. Your ear is too good. You liked the first, but you might tell me the next sounds like the slop of minstrel troupes. I would suffer from your bad opinion of me.”

“Criticism, the death from a thousand cuts.”

“I’ve had only a few people who have listened to my poems. Most are relatives who opine on with the same complaints they have for boils and bad weather. ‘
Ai!
It’s too painful to bear. When will it end?’ My wife was my best critic. She had strong opinions and saw the good and the bad in what I wrote. We could talk freely about everything because we were like-minded. Her name was Azure, like the blue skies where she dwells.” He was quiet and turned his head away from me. “She died of typhus five years ago.” He remained silent, and I did not feel right interrupting him. “I apologize,” he said at last. “I should not burden you with my sadness. You don’t even know me.”

“Not many understand the loss of profound love,” I said. “My husband died six years ago, and my daughter was stolen from me three years ago. Edward and Flora.”

”They were foreigners?”

“Edward was an American. Flora was born in Shanghai.”

“I noticed something different about you—an absence of a part of your spirit. Your eyes see but have stopped looking. The grief.”

Such understanding was unusual in a man.

“In my case,” he went on, “grief did not lessen over time. It renewed itself each morning when I awoke and discovered my wife was not beside me. It was as if I were learning for the first time that she was dead. I would climb the hill to her gravesite every day to remind myself she was gone forever. I recited my poems to her headstone, remembering I had read them to her when she breathed beside me in bed.”

“I talk to my husband, too. I gain comfort when I think of him, but when he doesn’t answer, I am devastated once again.”

“I have thought many times of killing myself so I can join my wife. Only my little son keeps me bound to earth. My cousin forced me to come here. ‘Come see beautiful women, not graves,’ he said. And so now you know, I have no heart to pursue pleasures of any kind, even if I could afford to. But this evening, you revived a deadened part of me—my spirit. You speak so openly about all things. That was her nature as well.”

“Your grief is the depth of this poem. It stirs me. Will you let me recite it tonight to our guests?”

“You’re kind to ask. But I think the others don’t want the intrusion.”

“There’s a lull in the party now, and it’s my role to add some luster with entertainment. Will I be the first courtesan to recite this poem in public?”

“My wife in her grave is the only one who has heard it.”

I went to Loyalty and asked if he would like me to recite Perpetual’s poem as part of the entertainment. As I read it, I felt profound longing for Edward and Little Flora. I imagined Little Flora waiting for me. Perpetual was astonished at how well I captured his intent.

That night I received more accolades and money gifts than I had in several years. I was immediately invited to numerous parties that would be held in the next week, and as the requests piled up, I had to tell my hosts I could come only for a brief amount of time, due to my numerous engagements. I had returned to the days when men pursued me and increased their gifts to compete for my favor. Three men pursued me with special interest, vying for my favor.

By the end of the second week, one suitor went elsewhere. After another week, the passion I had momentarily stirred had spent itself, by which time a dozen courtesans had recited Perpetual’s poem. I lived in terror once again that I would have no visitors, not even occasional ones. And to those who did come, I allowed the wooing to be brief, a few days and not weeks. A man these days had too many choices and would not wait to see if a flower chose him above others. He could date modern college students for free who did not care about scandal and shame. They even kept sponges to prevent pregnancy pinned to their panties so they could slip them into their vaginas the moment opportunity arose. When I accepted one man on the first night, Magic Gourd berated me, saying I was behaving no better than a girl at an opium flower house. Two men came to visit the next night, mentioning they were friends of the man who had visited the night before.

“You see!” Magic Gourd said. “You’re attracting cheapskates like flies to rotten fruit. There is no quicker way to ruin a reputation.”

At least I continued to receive requests to perform at parties, most recently from Perpetual’s cousin Mansion. He was honoring two important men who had the ear of the president of the Republic. I was told they especially liked the American songs.

“Will your cousin Perpetual return to us?” I asked. “I want to thank him again for his poem. It led to quite a stir.” I also hoped he would let me recite another of his poems.

“I’ll invite him the next time I see him. He comes and goes. I think he has some sort of business outside of Shanghai. Or maybe he’s taken up with a courtesan at another house. Hah! He’s quite secretive.”

A business. So he was not as poor as he made himself out to be. And I knew there was no truth to his being at a courtesan house. Poor man.

A
FEW NIGHTS
later, Perpetual returned as Mansion’s guest at a small party of drinks and games with close friends. Magic Gourd hurried over to me and told me to extract another poem from him.

“Do you think I’m so stupid I would not have thought of that already?”

I welcomed Perpetual with genuine gladness. After my performance, I seated myself beside him. “I’m glad Mansion forced you to come back.”

“I certainly didn’t need much persuasion. Your music lifted my spirits, and I deeply appreciated our conversation.”

Mansion and his friends started the Finger Guessing game. Perpetual declined to play. He said he disliked gambling. We watched a few rounds with amusement. But then I saw his face become somber. He turned and looked at me with haunted eyes.

“It’s been difficult since the last time I saw you. I was grateful I could speak openly about my wife, but it also created an upwelling of nearly unbearable sorrow. I was so desperate to alleviate the pain that I wandered the
streets for hours until I found myself in an opium flower house. It was dark inside and the shadow of a woman led me to a divan. I heard the voices of other men and women. I took two puffs on the pipe and soon the pain eased and I entered the blue smoke heavens. All the joy I had ever experienced in my entire life poured back into me at once. I did not think I could feel any greater bliss—until I felt a hand on my arm. Azure was sitting beside me. I swear, it was as vivid as seeing you here. I kissed her and caressed her face to make sure she was real. She assured me she was. She lay down on the divan, her clothes disappeared, and her beautiful pale body undulated in eagerness for me. Once again we were conjoined in mind, heart, body, and spirit. She made the same cries of joy, accompanied by the peals of tiny bells tied to her ankles. We swirled weightless in silk and air. We rose to the heights, higher than we had ever gone, and after each peak, we began again. Every time I entered her—” He stopped. “Forgive me. What’s dear to me must sound obscene.”

“Nothing shocks me,” I said. I secretly considered I, too, might smoke opium to bring back Edward as a vivid illusion.

“The joy does not last long enough,” he said. “The blue smoke eventually disappears and the reality emerges and is much harsher than before. One moment I was lying with my wife, sighing with contentment, and the next I was staring into the eyes of a vamp. This girl was no more than twenty, around the age of my wife when she left me. Other men would have thought she was pretty. But I was revolted that my wife had been exchanged for this empty-headed girl who talked like a whimpering baby. I looked for my clothes so I could leave as soon as possible. But then I felt her firm hand on my privates. I was disgusted and about to order her to stop, and then I was even more disgusted with myself because my penis had hardened in her hand. I am a normal man and it had been five years since I had touched a woman, other than that illusion of my wife. The girl lay back on the divan, pulled up her dress, and spread her legs. I could not repel the urge. I thrust myself into her—and then, what I did …” His chest heaved, as if to keep from sobbing. He looked down. “I did something revolting, and it makes me sick to even think about it now.” He shook his head.

I waited for him to continue. But he stood up.

“I can’t talk about this anymore.” He looked around. “If anyone else heard me they would think I was a lunatic. I think I’ve subjected you to enough accounts of my miserable life. You’re extraordinarily kind for listening.”

“There’s no need to apologize. Truly. It’s necessary to purge the worst that grief brings. Perhaps you could do so by writing more poems.”

“I have. Much of it is sentimental blather. The next time my cousin invites me I will bring you some. Then you can have a good laugh. No more of these gloomy self-indulgent recollections.”

“You don’t need to wait until he invites you,” I said, thinking quickly. “Come tomorrow in the late afternoon. I can listen to your poems in the privacy of my sitting room and have tea.”

As soon as he left, Magic Gourd rushed over. “Did he give you a poem?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. He’ll come for tea.”

“If he gives you a poem, will you let him into your bed?”

“What? And make him think I’m a prostitute?”

H
E ARRIVED THE
next day wearing Chinese clothes. I was a bit surprised. Some of our clients still did, but they tended to be older. Then again, he did hail from An-hwei. As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “Western clothes can’t compare to the Chinese long gown in terms of comfort. Look at me. Don’t I look more like a poet?” He did, and I also thought he was more handsome, perhaps because he seemed relaxed.

I invited him to sit in the armchair. I took the sofa then waited for an opportune time to ask him for a poem. I waited as he told me about the new problems facing Shanghai. I waited as he recounted the injustices to workers and peasants. I tried to be an interesting conversational partner, but I was also impatient. I asked Magic Gourd to bring wine instead of tea. Finally the conversation returned to his misery and torment. His speech became slurred.

“I hesitated to tell you yesterday what happened at the opium flower house because I was scared thinking I had gone mad. I know I can speak frankly to you, but if I tell you what happened, can you be honest with me and tell me if you think I’ve lost my mind or have become evil?”

I gave him my most sympathetic look and honest assurances.

“I already told you about my wife and the girl. As I was saying, the girl was lying on her back and I was on top of her, grinding her by instinctual need alone. She was smiling. All of a sudden I could not bear to see her face. I asked her to turn away and close her eyes. And then I could not stand to feel her body latched onto mine moving as if we were one. So I told her to stop moving, to lie still. I told her to make no sound. I closed my eyes and I imagined this still body was the corpse of my wife. I was crying out of joy and shame because I had joined with my beloved again, only now she was dead. I pounded into her harder and harder, as if I could fill her with life. But she remained a corpse, and it filled me with fresh anguish, so I stopped. I asked the girl for the pipe. Soon I was in blue smoke heaven with the illusion of my wife fully alive. What joy I felt as I slipped between those familiar soft folds and into her secret chamber. I made love with this illusory living body. Hours later, I returned again to my senses, and saw the prostitute, and again I made her assume the role of my wife’s corpse. I was
there for three days. I could not stop because the bliss increased the torment and the torment increased the need for relief … Are you repulsed yet?”

“Not at all,” I lied. His fantasies were revolting. Yet it was admirable that a man could grieve for his wife so much he would resort to such gruesome measures to be with her. A dead wife would be flattered.

He clasped my hands in gratitude. “I knew you would understand. You’ve told me already that you imagine your husband when another man is penetrating you.”

I had not said that—and what a crude way to put it—”penetrating you.” When I imagined Edward, it was when I was alone, when I was missing our quiet times, and I was remembering what he had said.

Perpetual looked around the room and complimented me on the tasteful decor. “When you imagine your husband,” he said, “is it just his face?”

“What I remember most is the sound of his voice,” I said, “certain conversations we had. And I also can see his different smiles, a contented smile, a smile of relief, one of surprise, or the way he looked at our baby when she was born.”

“Expressions. That’s interesting. How about scent, the odor of his body and breath?”

“That’s not what returns to me unconsciously. With effort just now, I can remember it somewhat.”

“I remember everything, especially the sex scent, the two of us together. It’s my poet nature to remember and imagine the forbidden. Misery is the source of my poems.”

Here was my chance, at last. “Did you know your last poem caused a flurry of requests for me to perform it again in other houses?”

“Mansion told me. I’m glad. I looked through the hundreds I’ve written, trying to decide what else you might like.”

Hundreds. My career was saved.

“I chose one of my newer poems, part of a collection I call City of Two Million Lives. You should be completely frank in your opinion of it. I am always working to improve my poems.” He cleared his throat.