Li Ang - The Lost Garden

At night, when devoid of the excuse of a paper, she would feign fatigue and lie in his arms for comfort, though actually resting on his knees to kiss and suck on his penis. The need to avoid detection and the ruses they had to devise only added to the titillation, making them both excited.

He would often want her to sit atop him, claiming that people could not see through the tinted windows. And as for the driver, he would think she was just being affectionate, but she would not agree to his request, no matter how persistent he was.

Finally in L.A. on the night before they left town, they got into the black stretch limo they’d rented for the trip, after a night of proper interaction and small talk, a champagne toast for future successful cooperation, and the American-style good-bye of hugging and kissing.

She had chosen the limo chauffeur herself. A young white man, he had a sincere smile, earnest enough to promote the American Dream. From a quick inquiry at the car rental agency and casual conversation later, she learned that driving the limo was a part-time job for him, as he had come to L.A. for other prospects, such as Hollywood. Of course. Why not?

On the spring night before they returned to Taiwan, she asked the chauffeur to drive around L.A.’s prime residential areas and main thoroughfares, with the full knowledge that they could drive around for hours in sprawling downtown, even at night, when there was less traffic.

“Let’s experience the magic of L.A. at night.” She said to the young man with a smile.

Then she began to lead him on, without him asking her to, though she was trembling slightly out of nervousness. Lin immediately knew what he’d be able to do that night.

“Is it safe?” he whispered, biting her ear.

She nodded.

“Then ask the driver to tilt the rearview mirror.” He said leisurely, but it sounded like an order.

She slid open the glass partition and, in a dry, unnatural voice, relayed Lin’s request. The young driver complied, calm and composed, like his American smile. He didn’t look surprised, so obviously this was not the first time for him.

Lin began to take over. As she shrank into the seat, with a practiced hand, he removed Yinghong’s clothes until he was able to touch her freely. Blocking her with his broad shoulders, he kissed and played with her breasts but always on the alert to quickly cover up what they were doing.

Fondling and oral sex were what he liked most from her, so his eyes were nearly shut as he enjoyed the pleasure, though he still cast an occasional glance at the world outside the car window.

The streets of L.A., with more than ten lanes of traffic, were just about devoid of pedestrians, and his mind was put at ease, as the car rolled along at a steady pace.

His skill from practice and total control also made her feel safe. Though tall and big with long limbs, he had enough room to maneuver in the spacious limousine, so Yinghong, smaller in size, did not feel crowded, as she had thought.

He guided her in changing positions to increase the pleasure and comfort, which enabled her to once again experience his awe-inspiring style. A sense of submission and dependence turned her body supple and lithe, and, under his instruction, that softened body was able to easily accomplish several difficult positions and unfamiliar moves. Total relaxation and reciprocation led her to forget herself completely, and all she felt was bodily, carnal pleasure.

Feeling disrupted each time the car stopped at a red light, she began to complain about all the stoplights in L.A. While waiting for a light to change, the chauffeur showed visible unease, suddenly not knowing what else to do; moreover, the vehicles that came up to them on both sides gave her the feeling that the windows were useless and that the drivers of the other cars could see what they were doing.

Right after they were done and had tidied up, Lin lowered the window, sending late-spring evening wind onto her sweaty face; caught unprepared, she let out a startled cry.

“Can’t you smell it all over the car?” he teased, while reaching out to put his arm around her.

Without the dark windows, L.A.’s night lights leaped into her field of vision in all their glory. As the car drove along, the city seemed to suddenly come alive and became something real; she no longer felt that it was merely a Hollywood set, as viewed earlier through the windows, where the darkened, understated city seemed to be an endless, unconnected background, existing just for cars to drive through.

It was like opening your eyes again to see the real world outside, making the earlier lovemaking scene in the car more like a dream. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“You’ll remember me, won’t you?” She stammered, “There have to be some moments … that will stay with you.”

He held her tightly.

“Silly,” he said tenderly.

She recalled the conversation in Japanese with Father in the backseat of his newly purchased Mercedes, which was still being driven by the consulate driver, after Father had explained to the driver, who obviously knew no Japanese, that this was their daily language of choice.

“When I was a boy, your grandfather had a black Japanese sedan. He taught a man how to drive so he could have a properly trained chauffeur.”

She listened quietly, head lowered, as dictated by their family upbringing; she did not even turn to look at the scenery passing by outside, despite her urge to do so.

“Back then the family driver did not wear a uniform. Your grandpa was so considerate he did not want people to detect the driver’s status from the uniform. He often said that ours was a big family in which we were all equals.”

Father paused.

“I recall his name — Ah-bing. He wore gloves when he drove. He treasured the car and did not want to soil the steering wheel if he happened to have dirty hands. Ah-bing always sat up straight, his hands resting on the upper curve of the steering wheel with his elbows turned in to maintain a certain angle between arms and body. You would never see him flail his arms to turn the wheel.”

Immersed in his recollections, Father began to smile.

“When Ah-bing made a turn, he never turned the wheel all the way; instead, he did it slowly, little by little.”

Father looked up to watch the traffic in front of them.

“You’ll see how the driver makes the turn when we get to an intersection.”

The anticipation made her sit up with excitement during this, her first ride in the family Mercedes. Father and daughter strained to search for an intersection, while the car moved at a leisurely pace, letting trees and farmhouses in the Lucheng outskirts recede one by one. The car seemed to glide over the bumpy, unpaved road.

They encountered no intersections that day until they reached the provincial highway, where the driver needed to make a wide left turn. And indeed, as Father had said, the trained driver did not swing the steering wheel when he turned. Instead, he moved his hands several times to inch the vehicle elegantly to the left. They got onto the asphalt provincial highway without swaying back and forth.

She turned to look at her father and they both smiled.

Yinghong had heard since childhood that her mother’s beauty was widely celebrated.

“Pretty, just like a Japanese lady,” they said. “Lady” was used only for pretty women, and since Japanese women were pretty, they were called Japanese ladies. Taiwanese women were not refined enough back then to deserve to be called ladies.

“Have you ever heard of a Taiwanese lady?” Even Mudan felt that way.