Don't cry Tai lake

her, he noted. The cutting, though slightly torn, was a recognizable pattern of fish and flower, symbolic of passionate love and fruitful marriage.

The sampan moved further out, swinging a little from time to time, riding in a channel marked on both sides by poles stuck upright in the water.

She took off her trench coat, her white shoulders flashing against the somber background. Picking up a cup from the table, she poured some water from the bottle she carried with her.

“You’re so careful.”

“You can’t be too careful these days.”

“That sounds like a line I read long ago.”

“Again? You’re so into poetry,” she said with a teasing smile that illuminated her vivacious face. “Are you always such an impossible romantic as a tourist?”

“I don’t know, but as a tourist, I’ve always wanted to spend a day on the lake,” he acknowledged. “And there’s a more pressing reason, of course-I wanted to be with you.”

His words just now sounded like an echo of something he’d read long ago, though it could have been prose and not a poem. He found it easy to slip into the role she’d assigned him.

“Shall we go to the Three Celestial Islets?” the sampan man said. “With all the Taoist temples, pavilions, pagodas, jade and crystal towers there, it is filled with really heavenly scenes.”

“The Three Celestial Islets is a tourist attraction next to the park,” she said. “According to one interpretation, the islets look like a turtle from across the water. It’s always packed with tourists.”

“No, I’m not the typical tourist,” Chen said. “I can’t help but think of some lines from Su Shi: Only it could be chilly there, / in the jade and crystal towers. / Incomparable to dancing here / in the human world.”

“You’re absolutely right,” the sampan man said. “My boat is dancing at your command.”

“What are you thinking now?” Shanshan said.

“Well, some other lines come to mind: Water flows in the rippling / of her eyes. / Hills rise in the knitting of her brows. / Where is a traveler going to visit? / The enchanting landscape / of her eyes and brows. That’s not my poem, but one by Wang Guan, a Tang dynasty poet. For him, spring and beauty are one, that’s why the poem ends like this: When you catch up with spring, / south of the river, make sure / to stay with her. So I’m staying here with you.”

“You are overwhelming me,” she said with a light, wistful smile. It was no longer fashionable to quote poetry in today’s society, but it didn’t seem to irritate her.

“What a poet you are!” the sampan man cut in, having overheard their conversation. “Would you like to hear a couple of sampan songs?”

“Sampan songs?”

“Yes, a time-honored convention here,” the sampan man responded with a broad grin. “Remember the love songs in the stories about Tang Bohu?”

Tang was a legendary romantic scholar and painter in the Ming dynasty. There was a singing boatman in those stories, Chen recalled.

The sampan man began to sing in his deep voice with a strong Wu accent, a song celebrating the eternal theme of love:

Red peach blossoms blaze

all over the hills,

with the spring water

of the river flowing around.

The flower color will easily fade,

my lord, like your passion,

while the water runs on,

never-ending, like my feelings.

To his surprise, Chen recognized the song as one composed by Liu Yuxie, another well-known Tang dynasty poet. It was a sort of boat melody for lovers in ancient times.

“Well done,” Shanshan said, clapping her hands.

“Bravo!” Chen said. “I’ll add ten yuan to the fee.”

The sampan man’s eyes, Chen noticed, seemed to be anchored on Shanshan. Perhaps he was singing to her, reminded of his own younger days. She must have been aware of it too. She smiled good-naturedly at Chen as she patted his hand across the table.

The sampan kept gliding on, the sampan man still singing, declaring passion unchanged from time immemorial.

The willow shoots green,

the river water smooth,

she hears him singing

across the waves.

It shines in the east,

it rains in the west.

It is said not to be fine,

but fine to me.

Chen was amazed. It was another boat song by the same Tang dynasty poet, and the second stanza contained a clever pun that was both about and not about the weather.

In the distance, there were a couple of rowboats, some sharp-nosed, some blunt. One of them seemed to be checking nets in the waves, just the way it was done in the Tang era. However, factories also loomed along the lakeshore, with their smokestacks pouring out smoke against the brownish hills. Not far away, several water birds were seen scavenging among washed-up dead fish.

“One more,” Shanshan said to the sampan driver.

The Qing River meanders

against myriads of willow shoots.

The scene remains unchanged

as two decades ago …

The same old wooden bridge,

where I parted with her,

brings no news, alas,

for today.

The last song astonished Chen with its abrupt sad ending. He looked up to see the willows lined along a curving stretch of the bank, just as in the poem.

Where would he be in two decades? Would he remember this day in the boat? he wondered.

“We also provide a special boat meal,” the sampan man said, wiping sweat off his forehead with his hand. “Fish and shrimp, all fresh and live, straight out of the water. I’ll throw in the net right now, if you like.”

“That would be interesting,” Chen said. He had read about boat meals-where a fresh catch was prepared there and then, cooked on a tiny stove, and served in the cabin.

But then he caught a glance from Shanshan. She didn’t say anything, perhaps reluctant to be a wet blanket again, but he knew her reservations about the contaminated lake. There was no point discussing it, however, in the presence of the sampan driver.

“Well, we’re not that hungry,” he said. “Not now, thank you.”

“Thank you,” she echoed.

“That’s fine. You have my boat for the whole day. No rush on the meal,” the sampan man said in good spirits, stealing another look at her. “Now, I happen to know a boat meal story.”