Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

A few moments passed and the same voice rose again in the chilly air. “You’re a tourist?”

I turned to study the stranger. What struck me was, again, his thicket of chestnut hair—which made me think of wood shavings curling under a plane—and his smooth, delicately featured face. “Yes, how do you know?”

He laughed a little. “Because you read your guidebook in English.”

“Oh.” I silently cursed. No matter how careful you think you are, there are still things that can unexpectedly give you away.

He asked, “Where you from?”

I hesitated.

An awkward silence, then he said, “I’m from New York City.”

“Me too, what a coincidence!” I exclaimed, then hated the enthusiasm in my voice.

Even though I knew nothing about this stranger, meeting a fellow New Yorker made it all seem less unreal. The Chinese say there are four great happinesses in the world:

I studied his grayish green eyes, which seemed to twinkle mischievously, reminding me of the phrase “stars in the eyes.” “So you’re American?”

He nodded.

“You travel alone?” we asked simultaneously.

Then we both uttered a “yes,” and laughed.

Damn! I was here for a purpose, not to chitchat with strangers, so I said, “Nice to meet you. Bye.”

Disappointment flooded the young man’s face; the stars dimmed. “Sorry if I am bothering you.”

“It’s OK.”

“Hope I’ll see you around then,” he said softly, then walked away.

Good. I didn’t come to China to socialize. Time enough for that after I carried out my mission and collected my fortune.

Starting to walk and look for soldier number ten, I was faced with the problem I’d been fretting over ever since last night. How could I possibly sneak close to “him” and scrape a tiny piece of clay? Finally I approached my intended victim, unobtrusively I hoped, and regarded him intensely. Then I looked around. The middle-aged guard was now standing by the entrance staring at nothing, while his younger and shorter colleague sat on a chair, looking bored. The elderly couple was studying some of the soldiers in a far-off corner, and the two girls were giggling. The older man’s fingers pointed at the warriors, his hand gestures cutting invisible sculptures in the cool air, while the woman’s lips moved rapidly uttering oohs and aahs and other remarks, audible and inaudible. The young foreigner was now intensely studying a soldier in another far-off corner.

How could I get close to warrior number ten—he was a few feet below me in a pit and guarded by a thick rope—let alone scrape something from him? Then I remembered Chris’s favorite admonition toward the ends of his creative writing classes: “Explore your creativity and use your imagination,” he would say, tapping his head hard with his sexy fingers.

I kept racking my brain while staring at the warrior as if he were my eternal and only love. I looked and looked for a long time, fidgeting with the small knife and some coins inside my pants pocket. Suddenly, as if pushed by some mysterious force, I slipped and fell against my “lover.” With a will of its own, my hand reached to scrape a tiny piece from the terracotta soldier, then swiftly put it inside my jeans pocket.

The American youth was the first one who spotted the “accident.” He dashed toward me, trying to step down to the trough, but the young guard immediately screamed at him to stop.

The uniformed man yelled in Chinese, “Stay right here!” then rushed over to me and grabbed my arm to pull me up. Instead of offering some comforting words, he screamed, “What do you think you’re doing!”

“I’m sorry. I fell.”

Now the middle-aged guard hurried toward us, followed by the elderly couple and the two girls.

Both guards scrutinized me with narrowed eyes, ready to release long-held poison. The couple gave me a suspicious once-over. The two girls covered their mouths and giggled more.

Finally the young guard said to his colleague, “What should we do with her? Call the police?”

A smirk bloomed on the older guard’s face. “Excellent idea!”

As my heart was pounding, to my surprise, the young American moved up to the two guards, put his hands on their shoulders, and spoke in a low voice as he steered them away. The guards stood stiffly. Then, all three backs turned to us, I saw the American stuff something into the guards’ pants pockets.

Having finished their business, the three walked back toward me. The older guard waved away the four reluctant onlookers. After they left, both guards cast me a pleasing smile.

The older guard said, “Miss, sorry you fell. You feeling all right now?”

I nodded.

“Next time, be more careful.” He winked to his colleague. After that, as if nothing had happened, the duo sauntered away.

Before I had a chance to thank the American youth, he looked at me with concern. “Are you OK? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine. Thank you so much for helping me.” I noticed again his grayish green eyes, almost the same color as his pants.

“You sure you’re OK?”

“Yes,” I said, a little louder than I should while dusting my sweater and jeans, thinking, Please, leave me alone! Then feeling sorry for my rudeness, I smiled as sweetly as I could. “What did you say to the guards?”

He kept staring at me without answering.

“All right, thanks for getting me out of the situation anyway. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He smiled shyly; his face flushed a lovely pink. Then he extended his hand. “I’m Alex, Alex Luce.”

“I’m Lily Lin. Nice to meet you.”

His hand was moist and cold. Was this kid worrying about something? But I was the one who fell, not him.

“Can I call you Lily?”

“Yes, of course.”

He blushed more. “Lily, can… can… I invite you for dinner?”

I stared hard at him. It was a strange request. Did he want a free dinner from me as a reward for his help? As a kid he probably didn’t have much money, and maybe he had already spent most of what he had.

“You’re sure?” I looked at him straight.

He nodded and uttered an emphatic “Yes.”

My heart softened a little by his sincerely pleading eyes, not to mention that this kid was in fact nice-looking and appealing. “OK, but my treat.”

“Oh, no, please, I’ll treat.” His tone was firm.

A stubborn American kid.

“All right,” I said, then we started to walk toward the exit, this time feeling the eyes, not only of the two guards but also the thousand warriors, drilling holes into my back.

Afraid of seeming to take advantage, I suggested a small restaurant right next to my hotel. Only three or four tables were occupied. Bare bulbs dangled from the ceiling, from which hung yellow strips speckled with tiny blobs of black. I realized to my distress that the black spots were not some avant-garde form of calligraphy but dead flies. Would that disgust the American? I cast him a sideways glance and, to my surprise, a smile hovered on his face. Heads turned to scrutinize us as we walked to a table in the back corner. I sat down, ignoring a hostile stare from a gap-toothed man and an envious one from a garishly dressed young woman. Pasted on the wall were pink paper place mats covered with calligraphy.

I pointed them out to the young man. “Those are the menus.”

He said, “I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I major in Chinese studies at Columbia.” He pointed to the different slips and recited in slightly accented Chinese, “Stir-fried bitter melon, roast duck over rice, minced beef with tofu. I’ve had those before. Delicious.”