Bi Feiyu - Three Sisters

Guo Jiaxing arrived at his office every day at eight. Eight o’clock on the dot. Sitting at his desk, he steeped a cup of tea, crossed his legs, and started his day with two newspapers and one magazine, [4] People’s Daily, PLA Daily, and Red Flag. carefully reading every word. This could almost be mistaken for a form of study. Guo sat at his desk in town all day long, but for all practical purposes, he spent every day in Beijing, following with interest everything that happened in the nation’s capital. He would never overlook who among the leading comrades moved up in the hierarchy and who moved down. The year before, for instance, seven members of the leadership had greeted Prince Norodom Sihanouk, but this year three of them had been replaced. Over the past few days, newspapers had reported that one of the three had been sent to Tanzania and a second was in Inner Mongolia, involved in “cordial discussions with herdsmen.” There was no news of the third. This name, the status of which was unclear, was one that Guo would keep in mind for weeks afterward, and if too much time passed with no subsequent mention, he would bring it up with commune leaders, keeping his tone as somber as possible: “So and so” has not been heard from for quite some time, he’d say. Eventually, when “so and so” resurfaced in the papers—his name or his photograph—Guo, now relieved, would pass the news on to his comrades. He was given to equating the names in his two newspapers and one magazine with the nation. Concern for them was the equivalent of being concerned for his country. He paid attention to them not because he was ambitious and wanted to move up the ladder. He wasn’t the type. He had gotten to where he was by toeing the Party line and wanted to keep it that way. Spending the rest of his career as a commune official was what he desired, for he was a man perfectly content with what he had. His routine had become an ingrained habit formed over many years until it was part of his nature. One day was just like every other one.

Guo Jiaxing was not concerned about individual people, not even himself. In his rigid approach to life, he kept the motherland in mind and the world in view, as Chairman Mao had once said. The concepts of birth, old age, sickness, and death bored him, as did thoughts about the daily necessities—the oil, salt, vinegar, and soy sauce—of life. To him those were trivial, vulgar, insipid, meaningless things. And yet, it was trivia that in recent days had him in its grip, and he was having trouble freeing himself from it. This situation had its origins in one of the revolutionary committee’s deputy chairmen. “Three flames burn in the bellies of middle-aged men,” this comrade had joked when he saw Yumi. “Promotion, riches, and the death of a wife. Deputy Chairman Guo has now managed one of them.”

It was an antiquated sentiment, an unhealthy remnant of the old society, and Guo was not happy when word of the comment reached him. But it made him think, and he had to admit that there was truth to it. He was not in line for promotion and had not gotten rich, but his wife had died, and by rights he should have been in the throes of depression and self-pity. And he’d expected to be. But he wasn’t. No, he was upbeat, energized, vigorous, inflamed.

Why?

Because his wife had died. Out with the old and in with the new. And there was more: His beautiful new wife, who was young enough to be his daughter, had satiny skin. While he would not have admitted it publicly, in his heart, Guo Jiaxing knew that the source of his happiness could be traced to his bed and Yumi’s body.

As he thought back over the past several years, he realized what a lethargic sex life he’d had. He and his wife were an old married couple, too familiar for their own good; and having sex was like attending a meeting: first, setting up the room, then calling to order, followed by reports and finally adjournment. A seemingly significant act was, in fact, an insipid experience. And, understandably, there had been no more meetings after his wife had contracted her fatal illness. To put a fine point on it, Guo Jiaxing had not had sex for more than a year, maybe two. Fortunately, his interest and desire had not been pronounced. There’s something to be said for celibacy.

Who’d have thought that spring would come to a dying tree; that the sago palm would bloom again? Guo Jiaxing would have been the last person to believe that he could be revitalized at that age, and for that he had to thank Yumi, a sex partner who knew exactly how to please him. More than that, she was very considerate. If he was lusting after her, she’d rest his head on her breasts and say, “Don’t overtax your body. Slow water runs far. Besides, who would want to take a hag like me away from you? And what am I supposed to do if you ruin your health? I’d be left with nothing.” Then she’d shed a tear or two to show how sad she’d be, though the effect was more endearing than sad. Guo was puzzled over how sex had become so important in his life after having given it little thought for so long—until Yumi arrived, that is. She could not hold him off, so she moved with him until they were both sweaty. Their bed was always wet afterward, and Yumi never could figure out why sex made her sweat so much. It was hard work for her, so one day she said, “Why don’t you go find a woman? You’re too much for me.” Obviously, that comment did not square with what she’d said in the past, but pillow talk has a way of defying logic. And Guo Jiaxing loved to hear her talk like that. It was music to the ears of this fifty-year-old man, since it meant that Guo Jiaxing wasn’t old, that he was still in the prime of life. In order to recapture his youth in the marital bed, Guo secretly began doing push-ups. At first he’d barely managed one; but he was now up to four or five, and at this rate, twenty or more should be no problem by the end of the year.

As far as Guo Jiaxing was concerned, Yumi was best off staying at home to sew and wash and clean. When he told her that, she kept her head down and said nothing, as was expected from the obedient young wife of an older man. That pleased him just fine. So she became a proper housewife, serving her husband in and out of bed. Until the night she took it into her head to be slightly roguish. Her husband had gone out drinking with commune colleagues, and when he came home, thanks to the alcohol, he wanted to take her straight to bed. She said no, which was out of character. So, without a word, he undressed her. She did not resist at first, but when she was naked, she covered herself with one hand and grabbed him with the other. “I said no.” She looked tantalizing, a blend of propriety and promiscuity. She was being playful, and he did not get angry. Instead, inflamed with desire, his heart snapping like a banner in a gale, he reached a point where he’d have inserted his whole body if he could. “I need it,” he said. Yumi ignored him and turned her head away. “I said I need it.”

This time she let go, pressed her breasts against him, and said, “Get me a job at the supply and marketing co-op.”

Guo’s passion had nearly frozen his tongue, and he did not know what to say.

“Do it for me tomorrow,” she said.

He agreed.

Yumi ran her fingers through her hair and lay back, arms and legs open for him. He was so excited by this time that the passionate lovemaking he’d been anticipating turned out to be a disappointment—he finished almost before he began.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly as she lay beneath him, her arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’m really sorry.” She said it so many times that it saddened her and she was soon in tears.

Actually there was no need to apologize. It had not gone well, but ultimately it had no effect on his passion. If anything, it had been an intoxicating experience. He was breathing hard, experiencing a growing attachment to his young wife. She was definitely worth keeping.