Song of the Silk Road (36 page)
He paused to sip his water, then, “This doesn’t mean your mother’s business is over. Now that all items have been returned to the government and the chip from the terracotta soldier tested, we must continue to fight to have her name cleared.”
“Thanks for doing all this for my mother. I hope you’re paid accordingly”—my voice had a slight taint of bitterness as I swallowed the rest of my sentence—“since I’m not.”
“She was broke. I have not been paid for a long time.”
I had wondered why he was so nice. Weren’t lawyers greedy and their devotion decided by their clients’ bank accounts?
As if guessing what I was thinking, he said, “Miss Lin, you may be shocked when I tell you . . .” He stopped, tearing up.
Seconds passed before I asked gingerly, “Yes?”
He looked as if he was struggling very hard to say something extremely painful. Finally, “I’ve been in love with Miss Madison for a long time.”
“What?” Another lover, my mother?
Ignoring my shock, he continued as he dabbed the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “She was a very attractive woman, determined and courageous. Unfortunately when you met her, her beauty had been destroyed by her cancer, her incarceration, and her long legal struggle. In her prime she was so energetic that she made everyone around her feel confident and hopeful. I was but one of her many admirers.”
This seemingly emotionless man had been grieving all along.
“Are you married?”
“I was, but I divorced after my ex-wife found out about my infatuation with Mindi. I never married again.”
A man with a broken heart.
“That’s why you try your best to help me?”
He nodded.
“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”
“After her, I find other women uninteresting. Although Mindi never really loved me back, we did have an affair.”
So he was the boyfriend that my mother had referred to!
“You mean . . . until her death?”
He nodded.
Various perverse questions flashed through my mind: How could a man be still attracted to a cancer-ravaged ghost of a woman? Did they have sex? Where, in the prison cell? In what positions, the hanging-upside-down-lotus?
Moments of silence passed before he took out a worn notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s the diary your mother kept during her trip on the Silk Road. You may find it of interest.”
“Are you lending it to me or can I keep it?”
“It’s yours. So you can know your mother better.”
I flipped through a few pages here and there, not really reading, just trying to feel my mother’s lingering spirit through her neatly formed characters and intimate words.
After another long silence, Lo asked, “Miss Lin, what are you going to do now?”
“There’s nothing more for me here. I guess I will go back to New York and try to finish my novel. After that, try to get an agent and a publisher. But that’s really a long shot. A distant dream, I have to admit.”
He looked at me deeply. “Don’t be discouraged. Just keep at it and you’ll succeed; you’ve got your mother’s fighting spirit.” He paused before he spoke again. “And her beauty.”
I was amazed to see him blush.
In the hotel, I stayed up most of the night reading my mother’s journal. When I finished, I finally understood why so many men were attracted to her. Maybe some mothers live through their daughters, but for me it had been the opposite. It was to relive parts of my mother’s life that I had taken my long, arduous journey along the Silk Road. She had found an unusual way to stimulate her daughter’s personal growth.
There were so many passages in her journal that I savored, such as this one:
August 3
I might be the first woman who traversed the “Go-In-But-Never-Come-Out” Taklamakan Desert alone. If I lived in the West, pictures of me pulling my belongings on a sled would be all over newspapers and magazines. But in China no one even knows about my existence, or my deed, and I have to keep it this way.
I keep thinking of death here in this harsh desert. If I “never come out,” then I will be like one of the billions of grains of sand, shifting in the soughing wind with not even ghosts for company. Yet even in this empty place, I always think of my little Lily who was two months old when I left Hong Kong to go back to China.
Three days later, Lo told me that because Mindy Madison had passed away, the government decided to drop all accusations against her. But as expected, the three million dollars were not to be released. I asked why, and his answer was: It’s not a smart thing to challenge the government by asking why. Anyway, since I knew nothing about the Chinese legal system and had no connections there, I finally accepted that the best thing for me was to keep my mouth shut, return to the States, and move on with life.
35
Back to New York
M
anhattan, which I had always thought was the most sophisticated city on earth, now seemed bland in comparison to the Silk Road cities where I’d traveled. Indeed, back home everything looked so ordinary that my Silk Road adventures seemed to have happened in another life. But since there was no three million dollars I had no choice but to return to my tiny studio near Union Square.
anhattan, which I had always thought was the most sophisticated city on earth, now seemed bland in comparison to the Silk Road cities where I’d traveled. Indeed, back home everything looked so ordinary that my Silk Road adventures seemed to have happened in another life. But since there was no three million dollars I had no choice but to return to my tiny studio near Union Square.
As soon as I arrived home I dialed Alex’s number, hoping his comforting voice and endearing words would ease my transition back into my normal life. But, as before, no one answered the phone. I even tried calling the registrar’s office at Columbia University and asked for Alex’s phone and address. However, other than confirming him as a graduate student there, they refused to provide any further information, citing confidentiality.
Where was he? Had he gone back to China to look for me? Very unlikely. Then the scenario I most dreaded popped into my mind: Maybe this time Alex had really fallen passionately in love with another girl his own age!
Depressed at the thought, I called Chris instead.
He sounded so ecstatic that I, disappointed by Alex’s disappearance, felt wanted again.
“Darling Lily, I’m so glad to hear your voice! You’ve really been torturing me by being away so long. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to tell. Can I come over tonight?”
I thought for a while. “Chris, how come you’re so available all the time? Where are Jenny and Preston?”
“You know, Lily, you’ve been away a long time. What do you think I did without you all this time? I spent my time with my family. I took my son to McDonald’s, the zoo, movies, ball games, shopping.”
“Was Jenny involved?”
“Of course, she’s his mother.”
“That means you don’t actually need me.”
“Oh, Lily, don’t be difficult. Of course I do.”
“Did you have another woman, I mean other than Jenny, while I was away?” I felt a little uncomfortable asking this. For I could not really consider myself faithful to him since, even setting aside the hanging-upside-down-lotus, I’d been with Alex in China.
He sighed. “Please, Lily. No other woman, only my family.”
“So you have sex with her?”
There was some silence before he said, his voice like a deflated balloon expelling its last puff of air, “What do you expect? You were away for so long, did you expect me to turn into a monk? Please, can I come over tonight?”
“You still haven’t answered my question. What will you tell Jenny about where you are going?”
“I don’t need to report everything to her. Besides, I’ve been a family man for six long months. I’m entitled to a break.”
“I can’t see you tonight,” I said, thinking of Alex and wanting to wait for him.
“Are you serious?” He raised his voice. “Then why did you call, to tease me?”
“Maybe just a courtesy call for an old friend,” I said, then hung up and unplugged the phone.
At six in the evening, heavy knocks at the door woke me from my nap. I rushed to the door and saw my former professor through the peephole.
I flung open the door. “Chris!”
He was holding, as usual, two bags of food. “Since you wouldn’t answer the phone, here I am delivering your favorite Chinese takeout.”
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.”
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.
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.
Ellen kept mailing me rejection letters from various publishers big and small until one day, unexpectedly, she called.
“Lily, congratulations! An editor from Center Books is very enthusiastic about your memoir and wants to publish it.”
These were the sweetest words I’d heard for a long time.
I screamed into the phone. “Oh, my God, am I dreaming?”
“Yes, a dream coming true.” She paused for suspense before blurting out, “They’re offering you a six-figure advance—one hundred thousand.”
This time my voice hit the jackpot. “Oh, my God, are you sure you got the figure right?!”
“Are you saying that I can’t do my job?” she joked.
“Of course not! Just . . . sounds too good to be true.”
“Congratulations, Lily, for writing such a wonderful book!”
Of course with the one-hundred-thousand-dollar advance, my earlier dread of having to look for menial jobs like waitressing or babysitting faded like morning fog.
The nine months before the book was actually going to come out dragged by. I occupied myself revising and taking care of other tasks such as selecting pictures and reviewing the cover design. My editor particularly liked the love story between Alex and me, which made me agonizingly sad and nostalgic. Would I cross paths again with the love of my life? Or as with my mother, had we just rubbed past each other’s shoulders among a huge crowd in this Red Dust?
Though at first I’d been tempted to include my affair with Chris to render my memoir more juicy and salable, I soon decided against it because it just didn’t feel right to hurt him or his family for my own gain. And what if Alex read all about my affair with Chris?
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