Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

Standing there, I couldn’t think of a way to make him leave.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Hmm…”

“Goddamn it, Lily, just let me in!”

I did, then closed the door and followed Chris to the dining table. He took out the containers of food and set them down on the table. After that, he tried to pull me to him to kiss me. I pushed him away.

“What’s wrong, Lily, you’re not happy to see me?”

“I’m tired.”

He studied me for a long moment. “Poor thing, you must be hungry, so let’s eat, and we’ll talk later.”

So we sat down and began to eat in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, after all the food was gone, Chris asked, “Aren’t you at least going to show me some affection after all these months?”

I leaned to peck his cheek.

“Why don’t we go to bed now?”

“Sure, but only by myself.”

“What do you mean? We always go to bed together!”

“But from now on, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I didn’t respond.

He reached to hug me and this time I let him. “You must be really tired.” Moments after he detached from me, he suddenly popped the question I’d been dreading. “Lily, I think at least I’m entitled to know your reason for going to the desert alone.”

I decided I might as well tell him the truth, since there was no three million dollars for him to covet. “Are you prepared to hear the whole thing?”

“Fire away.”

I showed him a few pictures, part of my journal, and told him almost everything, except of course Alex and my “hanging-upside-down-lotus” with the monk.

After I finished, Chris looked surprised beyond belief. “Lily, you really should’ve let me be part of all this! And the three million dollars? Gone, really!?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t even feel that bad. It was something too good to be true, anyway.”

He blurted out, “Why don’t you put your experiences down in writing?”

“But I already have my journal.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean a book.”

“Hmm… I never thought of that. I’m still overwhelmed by the whole thing.”

“Then all the more reason for you to write everything down so you’ll remember.”

“But I want to finish my novel first. It’s been sitting on my desk for too long.”

He didn’t reply, looking deep in thought before he spoke again. “Lily, I’d love to know about your experiences there. Can you lend me your journal for a few days?”

But I couldn’t possibly let him read the part about Alex and Floating Cloud, so I said, “I want to look it over myself now, so maybe you can take a look at it later.”

But he was insistent. “Please, there may be some writing ideas there for you and I may be able to help. I can have it copied and give it right back to you, how’s that?”

But of course I would have to make the copies myself, not him—so they would not include Alex or Floating Cloud.

“All right, when I have a chance I’ll make some copies. Right now I am too tired and jet-lagged to do anything. I am going to go to sleep—by myself.”

He had no choice but to leave, skulking away like a scolded dog.

Three days later, partially recovered from the long flight and having finished some necessary errands, I took out my novel in progress and tried to start writing again. But alas, not a single word came. After several false starts, I finally gave up. Then I thought of Chris’s suggestion of using my Silk Road experiences and began to organize my notes, the photos I had taken, Alex’s letters, and my mother’s and Lop Nor’s journals. After that, I typed away furiously on my computer. Maybe because this was firsthand experience, words poured out from my fingers like water from a tap. I was thrilled that it was so much easier than writing my coming-of-age, family saga novel.

Oblivious of everything except my writing, it was not until two or three weeks later that I realized that Chris—after dropping by to pick up the copies of my journal and pictures—had stopped coming to my studio completely.

Nor had he called.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number. To my surprise, his tone seemed distant, if not cold.

“Where have you been, Chris?”

“It’s Jenny. She’s not been feeling well lately, so I need to be here to care for her.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Why didn’t you call and tell me?”

“I… just don’t want you to worry.”

“How’s Preston coping?”

“He’s OK. Since his mother is sick, he needs more attention, too.”

“What’s wrong with Jenny? I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Oh, don’t worry, just a bad flu and fatigue.”

He sounded evasive, but since his family was none of my business, I decided not to probe further.

“Chris, don’t worry if you can’t call.”

“Sorry, Lily, just too many things on my mind.”

“I understand, no need to apologize. Just let me know when Jenny recovers.”

“I will.” He paused, then asked, “Have you started writing?”

“Yes. And Chris, I just can’t believe it. It’s so much easier than writing the novel. Not only do I not have writer’s block, I actually have writer’s shock—that suddenly I can write so fast and so smoothly.”

Some silence passed before his voice rose again. “You mean you’re writing your Silk Road experiences?”

“Yes, and thanks for your suggestion.”

“Maybe you should stop for a while.”

“Why?”

“It won’t be very good writing if you rush too much.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not thinking of publishing or anything. Not yet.”

“Good. I think you better concentrate on finishing your novel first.”

“How’s that?”

“Because you’ve been working on that for more than two years now. You should really finish that first. You don’t want to lose your momentum.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll also finish that someday. Promise.”

Five months later, I still had not heard from Chris but I had finished my Silk Road memoir. To try to find a publisher I’d need an agent first. I’d thought of asking Chris to recommend his but soon dropped the idea. True, he was quite generous with me, always paying for food and bringing small gifts, though nothing expensive, just bunches of carnations or roses from a Korean grocery or costume jewelry. The food was usually Chinese takeout—we almost never went out because he feared running into his colleagues or students.

I was pretty sure that although Chris had been willing to help me in small ways, to get his recommendation for a wannabe and nobody like myself would be as hard as for a virgin to get pregnant. Besides, he still hadn’t called, so either Jenny was really sick or he’d completely lost interest in me. I suspected the latter, since I’d turned down his demands for sex during his last two visits.

Anyway, my interest now was in Alex, who actually did love me, or had when I had last seen him. But he was never at home to answer my phone calls, and I wondered what happened. I took out the silver amulet he’d bought me, caressing its engraved dragon and phoenix. I prayed that we, instead of merely rubbing against each other’s shoulders in the passing crowd, would soon embrace in this Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust.

I decided to try my luck by sending out multiple inquiries. This is what the Chinese call yuweng sawang , spreading the net to catch fish—I hoped the huge net would ensnare at least one.

I got twenty-three rejections before one agent, Ellen Monroe at Monroe Agency, called me and offered representation. But she stated very emphatically in her stiff voice that there was no guarantee of acceptance by a publisher.