Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

“Congratulations, Lily.” One day Ellen called me, two months after my memoir had been sitting on the best-seller list. “You’ll soon receive a check, a very fat one.”

“May I ask what kind? I hope not saturated or trans fat.”

She laughed heartily. “Ha, very funny. You’ll laugh out loud when I tell you.”

“Fifty thousand?”

“Oh, think big, please.”

“A hundred?” My heart was beating like a battle drum.

“Lily! You heard what I said, think big! ”

“Two hundred?”

Her high-pitched laughter pealed like the most sonorous church bell. “Five hundred.”

“What? Are you kidding?!”

“Nope. Besides, I just sold your novel for movie rights.”

The rest of the conversation was a complete blur.

Iwas flown first class to the West Coast for a multistore book tour, put up in a five-hundred-dollar-a-night suite at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, and driven to the different bookstores in a limo with TV and a minibar. Was this a mirage, like the one Alex and I’d seen in the desert an incarnation ago?

I was to do reading/signings at Barnes & Noble, Borders, Book Passage, Book Inc., Kepler’s, among others.

Arriving at my first West Coast event, the San Francisco Borders, I was surprised to find the space already packed, with the crowd spilling into the hallway. The manager, a lively, thirtyish man, led me to the podium as the audience enthusiastically clapped.

After forty minutes of talking and reading about my desert adventures, passions, and survival, it was time for questions.

“Did you write this book for money?” asked a young man with a smug expression.

“Of course!”

Laughter spilled like water from a sprinkler.

I went on. “We write—or sing, or paint, or act, or play music—for all kinds of reasons. Not only money, but curiosity, challenge, to prove something… But who minds being paid for all of our painful efforts? And what about our bills?”

“Yay!” a group of young men yelled.

When the commotion died down, a very old, heavily made up lady in the front row demanded, “Where’s Alex? Do you miss him? Are you going to try to find him?”

The unexpected question brought tears to my eyes, but I blinked them back. I nodded. “Yes. And if anyone here happens to know his whereabouts, please tell me.”

More laughter as a few girls clapped and giggled.

A fortyish, professional-looking woman in a black suit raised her hand. “How do you feel about losing your mother, finding another one, then losing her again?”

“How would you feel?”

Another round of loud laughter rang out.

The audience was so enthusiastic that finally the manager had to stop the Q&A session to announce that it was time for the signing. In less than a minute, the queue already snaked all the way past the in-store café. A staff member gave out slips of paper for buyers to write down names to save time and avoid misspellings.

As I began to tire of repeatedly signing my name, a woman’s soft-spoken, accented English snaked into my ears. “Miss Lin, I’m Lingzi Lee. Very pleased to meet you in person.”

I looked up and saw the face of a fortyish Asian woman, somehow familiar. “Have we met?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“But I’m almost certain I’ve seen you somewhere.”

She pointed to a young man behind her, now moving up to us. “Maybe my son is the one you met?”

I almost fainted the moment my eyes landed on his face.

“Lily.”

“Alex!”

This time I could not hold back my tears. But then my joy at seeing Alex immediately changed to anxiety—he looked so gaunt and weak. What had happened?

I asked softly, “Alex, you lost a lot of weight. Are you OK?”

He nodded. “I’ll explain later. But don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

A chubby teenager behind Alex was the first to figure out what was going on. She screamed excitedly to her girlfriend, then everyone in the bookstore, “That’s Alex Luce, Lily Lin’s lover in the desert!”

Now all eyes were glued on us. Alex’s Chinese mother snatched out a couple of tissues and handed them to me. “You never imagined a reunion under public scrutiny, did you?”

Alex said, “Mother and I have just arrived from Taiwan.”

I extended my hand to shake Lingzi Lee’s. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lee.”

A pretty smile bloomed on the kind face. “Please just call me Lingzi.”

Alex spoke again. “Lily, finish your signings first, then we’ll talk. I will wait for you.”

“But please stay close where I can see you.”

Suddenly Alex leaned to my face and kissed me deeply on my lips, lingering for a long time. I was too shocked to respond. But not the audience—they broke into rounds of frantic applause and loud cheers.

Someone shouted, “Alex Luce is over there!”

Heads turned to scrutinize my desert lover, then ping-ponged between us.

A middle-aged woman yelled to me, “Wow. So young and handsome. Does he have a brother?”

I yelled back, “Go to the desert and find out!”

Feeling dizzy and choking back tears, I was achingly conscious of Alex’s stare and the audience’s curious ones as he stepped aside for me to greet fans.

The event finally ended at 10 PM. The manager thanked me. “Readers absolutely love you and your book.” He turned to wink at Alex, who was patiently waiting for me with his mother in a corner.

Then he turned back to wink at me. “I think you should definitely write a sequel to your memoir.”

I nodded.

“Better strike while the iron is hot.” He winked again, smiled, then walked away.

I wondered, Which iron should I strike—writing the sequel while my memoir was hot or marrying Alex when our passion was hot. Or both?

I only hoped the winks were not just muscle tics.

The three of us—Alex, Lingzi Lee, and I—got into the limo waiting outside. After a short ride, we got off at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and I led them straight to the restaurant in the hotel lobby.

Lingzi seemed fascinated by the elegant décor, the overpriced menu, and the gathering of richly dressed diners.

I was happy to see that it was not the décor or menu but me that held Alex’s attention. His eyes wouldn’t leave me, despite the parade of elegant women passing by.

Even though the waitress was beginning to show signs of impatience, Alex ignored the menu lying closed in front of him.

I kicked him under the table.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed.

Lingzi immediately came to her son’s rescue. “You OK, son? You want some Chinese medicinal oil?”

“Oh, no, mother, please don’t poison me with pungent oil!”

I kicked him again.

“Something wrong?”

“Alex, you need to eat. Look at the menu and decide what you want.”

“Lily”—his eyes penetrated mine—“I know what I want.”

I hissed, “Alex, please let’s order and not keep her waiting.”

Finally, to get things started, I ordered a Coke, Alex a beer, and his mother tea.

When the drinks arrived, we all lowered our heads to sip our beverages, trying to hide the awkwardness of each other’s long-missed presence. While occupied with the book signing I had pushed my concern for Alex’s health to the back of my mind. Now, looking at his hollow face and loose clothes, I felt a surge of worry.

When Lingzi left for the washroom, I asked, “Alex, tell me the truth, are you OK?”

“Lily, I’ve been sick.”

My heart flipped. “What’s wrong?” I was almost afraid to hear his answer and prayed to myself that Alex did not have anything terrible like cancer.