Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

“Chris, I have to go by myself.”

“What do you mean you have to? ”

“I…”

He cut me off. “But, Lily, what about your job? You just can’t quit working like that. You need money to pay your rent, buy food, travel. And the Silk Road—I thought your dream is the Sahara Desert. Anyway, why such a long trip now? You’re not an impulsive person.”

Chris sat up and flipped on the light. He looked even more attractive when agitated. And naked.

“Calm down, Chris. I just got another new credit card.”

“But you don’t want to be in debt! Why do this now? ”

I had a good answer for that, just not for him. “Chris, I’m going to be thirty, so I think it’ll be now or never.”

“Don’t be silly.” He combed his hair with his sexy fingers, stared at the calligraphy ren —patience—on the wall, then turned back to look me in the eyes, his words coming out slowly and deliberately. “Lily, are you seeing someone else, a rich guy? And you’re now traveling with him to the Silk Road?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

“Tell me, do you have another lover?” His tone was hurt and angry.

But how could he be? That was exactly what he was doing to his wife!

“No. I just want to go to the Silk Road and the desert.”

“But why now? And why by yourself?”

“Chris. I can’t tell you why now, maybe later. But I swear to you on my parents’ ashes it’s not a lover.”

A long silence lingered before he finally ejected a weak, “All right, then tell me later.”

I pulled him to me and started to kiss his eyes, his lips, then his… To my surprise, he pushed me away.

“Chris!”

“To leave you alone, isn’t that what you want?”

There was another long silence before I flipped off the light. Refusing to succumb to defeat, I reached out for his yang instrument, then slid my tongue, like a playful lizard, inside his mouth. It worked. Stirred, Chris pressed his torso against mine. I could feel his body heat enveloping me, then him hardening against my thigh like a mini–stone monument.

However, before his snake was about to enter its hole, a long-held question involuntarily shot out from my mouth. “Chris, why don’t we try the hanging-upside-down-lotus?”

“What!?”

“Eh… you mean you don’t know?” I assumed a nice-looking professor like him with so many sexual experiences would certainly already have tried all the beneficial positions.

Abruptly, the snake stopped moving and the hand kneading. Chris swung away, flipped the light back on, and sat up to face me. “What is this hanging-upside-down-lotus?”

“A… sexual act.”

Some silence before he slowly uttered, “I’m well aware of that.”

Then his tone turned icy cold and his eyes were shooting daggers into mine. “Lily, did you learn this from someone else and now you want to try it with me?”

“No… I… I just saw it somewhere in a book.” It was all that I could think of.

“A book? Then show it to me.”

This time no matter how hard I tried to rack my brain, no answer came. Let alone the much anticipated and needed orgasm.

Chris and I didn’t speak to each other for three days. I tried calling his work phone, even his house (making sure Jenny was working), but no one answered.

All right, so be it, since I’d be leaving very soon anyway.

I utilized the three Chris-free days to prepare for my trip—shopping (clothes, boots, hats, backpack, alarm clock, Swiss Army knife, medicine… ), going to the bank (taking out cash, buying traveler’s checks), looking up and booking hotels in Beijing and Xian (the first two stops toward the Silk Road), jogging (to maximize my energy), and gathering all the materials I could find about the Silk Road from guide books, academic books, maps, articles, even movies and novels.

On the fourth day, as I was packing and cleaning the apartment, Chris called. “Lily, I’m very sorry that I didn’t return your calls. Please understand how upsetting this whole thing is to me.” Some silence, then, “Can I come to your place tonight? We need to talk.” His tone was pleading.

“I’m busy cleaning and preparing for my trip.”

“You’re really going?”

“Do I sound like I’m lying? I told you I can’t tell you now why I have money for the trip.”

“All right, then when are you leaving?”

“In a week.”

His voice exploded like a firecracker. “So soon?! What about me?”

“You have Jenny, Preston, your best-selling novels, and your female students who’re all competing to take care of your ‘little brother.’ ”

Now the firecracker fizzled. “Lily, you know Jenny and I don’t get along, and I haven’t touched her for a long time.”

“Good. If you truly love me, then you can also abstain from touching other women for six months and wait till I come back.”

“Please, Lily, don’t torture me. I love you.”

“You love Jenny, too.”

“I… don’t think I’ve ever really loved her.”

“I hope you don’t say this about all your old girlfriends.”

“You want me to divorce Jenny and marry you? I’ll do that tomorrow. Or right now.”

Did Chris possess the ability to read minds? Could he already know about my upcoming fortune and now wanted to marry me to have a piece of the million-dollar cake?

Thinking this, I blurted out, “No way!”

“Lily, isn’t that what you want?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Chris, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I… am not feeling very well. I need to rest for the day. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Before he had a chance to respond, I hung up, then disconnected the phone.

That evening, I ordered a spring roll, hot and sour soup, kung pao chicken, beef broccoli, shrimp dumplings, scallion pancake, and fried banana from My Place Shanghai Tea Garden, my favorite expensive Chinese restaurant—a rival of Shun Lee Palace. Of course I couldn’t possibly finish all this. I just wanted to savor the pleasure of watching the food fill up the table. Delicious smelling abundance always made me feel good—happy, warm, fulfilled, pampered, and now rich .

To celebrate the occasion, I put on makeup and a revealing little black dress. While waiting for the delivery, I paced around my studio, feeling a sudden wave of affection for my modest belongings in this tiny refuge on Earth: the celadon vase spilling Chinese good-luck bamboo plants, framed posters of Van Gogh’s starry sky, and a Monet landscape opening vistas in the otherwise dull white walls. My books were stuffed in milk crates that I had painted in bright yellow, red, and green, not only novels but works on some of my favorite subjects: goddesses, feng shui, energy healing, even combing your hair 108 times for health and longevity.

After my parents’ death, I had thrown away practically all their possessions, which were not many. I kept all the photographs, which were not many, either, since my father, a businessman with more than one wife, seldom came home, and my mother, who worked almost her entire life at a church, never went out for fun. I had also kept my parents’ letters, my father’s childlike calligraphy ren (till he’d strike it real big, he’d always assured us), my mother’s wedding gifts—silk scarf, jade earrings, embroidered Chinese dresses—and a few other odds and ends. Wrapped in Mother’s silk scarf, these few possessions accompanied me on the journey of eight thousand miles from Hong Kong to New York City, the place I now called home.

When I heard the delightful ding-dong! I dashed to open the door and took the food from the deliveryman. I tipped him generously to match my mood, then set out the food on the table. At the center I placed the vase overflowing with my favorite white roses and baby tears. Then I lit two candles, put on my favorite music, opened a bottle of red wine, and poured myself a full glass. I meditated on the sloshing ruby liquid, then raised my glass to the moon outside the window. To myself, I recited the Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo’s famous lines: