Anchee Min - Red Azalea

The sound of steps in the stairwell. It’s my father, I said. What do we do? Yan put her jacket back on quickly and buckled her belt. I took out one yuan and said to her, Go and buy two tickets at the East Wind Theater. Why? To get my father out of our way. Which show? she asked. Lenin in 1918 and Lenin in October, I replied. Remember-buy two connected shows. I wanted to have my father stay away for at least four hours. Yan said, No, we can’t do that to him. I said, Leave the matter to me. I took Yan to the back window and told her to slide down by the roof. When I saw she had done so and crossed the fence, I shut the window.

I asked my father what made him come home early. Father said there was good news. The Shanghai Natural History Museum was about to reopen. The museum people had come to the printing shop and talked with the head to “borrow” my father to direct a sky show. This is the news I have been waiting for, Father said excitedly. It’s my dream to work with the stars. I’m tired of translating technical manuscripts for Albania. My rotten Russian will never get better. Cook me some fried rice, daughter.

As my father dug around in a drawer, I began to cook him a meal. I hoped Yan got the tickets with no problem. Usually, those movies had no audience because they were the only two foreign movies and had been running for years. Everyone knew the story, and teens would recite Lenin’s lines around the neighborhood: “We will have bread; we will have milk; the revolution will succeed. Long live the Soviet Union!”

Yan got back when my father was eating. I introduced them. Yan was shy. She would not raise her head. My father said, Do you see the man-made earth satellite hanging from the ceiling? Yan raised her head to look at the ceiling. My father laughed, then said, Forgive me girls, I just wanted to see my daughter’s best friend’s face. I hope you don’t mind my joking. Yan tried to look composed. My father said, All my daughter’s friends are shy. My daughter is a naughty monkey, isn’t she? Yan lowered her head, her face flushed. Disagree? asked my father. Then you don’t really know her. He seemed happy. He was rarely in such a good mood. I took my chances. I said, Papa, I’ve bought you two movie tickets. How nice, said Father. What movie? Lenin in October and Lenin in 1918. No, he said. I’ve seen those movies a hundred times. I really have better things to do. Do you have to disappoint me? I said, putting the tickets on the table. I thought you always liked Russian things. I sat down on the chair and pouted. I waited. And my father said exactly what I expected, Well, I suppose I have to please my daughter, he said, picking up the tickets from the table. Oh, my! It starts in ten minutes. Take off now, I said. I am sure you will enjoy it. I pushed him out. My father walked downstairs shaking his head.

I feel guilty, said Yan. I said, Believe me, he will have fun. Whenever Papa watches a movie, he is like a kid. He surrenders completely to the movie. I know my father. We are safe now.

Yan asked how safe the room was. It was a small porch with big glass windows and glass doors covered by flowery green draperies. Will you be guarding me from behind the draperies? Yan asked. I nodded. No one will come at this time of day, I said. Outside of the windows are big trees that block the neighbors’ view. Above the leaves is the sky. You won’t mind the birds watching, will you? You can watch the clouds changing shapes. I do that often.

Yan sat on the bed as I arranged the curtains, folded blankets and placed the pillows. Yan looked at me. I turned away because I could not bear her looking at me. I could not bear looking into myself. Yan’s eyes were speaking the unspoken. I saw hesitation in her sureness. I leaned out the window. Yan asked me what I was doing. I said, Expecting Leopard. Yan became nervous. She came and sat by my side. She placed her head against my thigh. She held my waist. She said she must overcome her nervousness. I said, Why don’t you kiss me? I felt her lips, her embrace. I said, The leaves are so green, the reeds must have grown full size at the farm. There is a cloud passing by. Don’t you think it looks like giant cotton ball? She did not answer me. She kept on what she was doing. I stared into the yard. The green part of the yard. I watched peach blossoms rain down from the branch, petals on top of petals. I let Yan’s warmth go through me. I kept composed. I could no longer see the yard. It was a green ocean I saw. I was floating with Yan in the tides.

Leopard appeared at the entrance of the lane on a bicycle. He parked the bicycle under a tree. He carried a black plastic bag on his back. He had a new haircut too, his hair combed with gel. His eyes looked unsettled, his steps uncertain. He looked like a first-time thief. His face was red with guilt. He was in a navy blue outfit. He saw me. He waved at me, embarrassed. His smile was funny. I waved at him and said that I would be down to open the door for him. I turned away from the window. Yan was on her knees. She raised her chin, looking at me, eyes burning. I tried to help myself. I kneeled down in front of her. I said, Leopard is downstairs-should I get him?

I went down and opened the door for Leopard. He ducked in. He was too nervous to say hello. I closed the door and sprang up the stairs. Leopard followed me up the staircase and onto the porch. Yan was sipping tea by the table. Leopard took off his bag, placed it right next to his feet and sat down on the other side of the table. He said, Well, cleared his throat, then coughed a dry laugh. Yan did not look at him. There was silence. A long awkward moment. We tried to avoid each other’s eyes. Leopard had a hard time placing his hands. He began to speak. He said he got stuck in traffic. He said he borrowed the bicycle from his uncle, who was a retired doorman. The bicycle had a rusted chain and a flat tire. He said that he was sorry to keep us waiting. Yan, still not looking at him, asked how the funeral went. Leopard said it was fine. Yan asked about his mother. He said she was fine. She had gone to spend some time in the countryside with his ninth aunt. The ninth aunt was living alone. Her son, Leopard’s cousin, was recently arrested and sentenced to jail. Yan asked why. Leopard said he did not know. The reason was obscure. The ninth aunt never made it clear to the family. His cousin was twenty-seven and was a violinist and had written a song called “To Her.” Was he involved with any female? asked Yan. Leopard nodded and said her name was Moon. Silence. Three minds drifted away to their own realms. Leopard took a look at his watch. The watch was new, a big Shanghai-made watch. Yan took another sip of tea. The birds outside the window sang loudly.

Yan did not ask Leopard about anything else. Leopard did not bring up any subject. They sat like two company leaders in a headquarters’ meeting guarding their tongues. I said the weatherman on the radio said that there would be cow-hair rain this afternoon. Leopard said, Oh, yes? Yan said, Oh, the cow-hair rain. Yes, I always like the cow-hair rain, I said. Me too, said Leopard. Me too, said Yan. They looked at each other.

I went to the kitchen and poured a mug of jasmine tea. I went back to the porch and placed the tea in front of Leopard. I refilled Yan’s mug, then sat down. The smell of jasmine perfumed the porch. The sunshine in the room moved slowly to the west. The clock in the living room sounded like a slow heartbeat. I stood up and pulled the curtains down. The room was shaded green.

Before I stepped out on the porch, Leopard looked at me pleadingly. It reminded me of the day I went to Company Thirty-two to deliver Yan’s letter. How I wished he would give me this look. I remembered my disappointment. Yan’s disappointment. Her lovesickness. I could not forgive Leopard. Yet, I forgave him. For he once was the reason Yan needed me, for he made us two one.