Without looking, I knew it was he. I looked at the statues of the Buddha prophets, hearing my heart cry out in joy.
As the crowd moved through, the hand let go. I turned around to look. About four feet away, he stood, as if nailed there, looking at me. He was deathly pale. Everything began to fade in front of me but his bright almond eyes. The deer with the red ribbon began to run, the peaches swayed low on the branches, the prophets continued their obscure smiling.
Two men in security-guard uniforms appeared. They rushed through the crowd and approached him. They spoke to him, looking around. They asked him whether he was well. He shook his hands impatiently and pointed them down the hill. The men were polite but refused to leave. They stood, locked. He turned toward the sky, chin tilted up. I saw extreme sadness in the almond eyes.
The costume designer reappeared. She complained about my slowness. She said she had made a wish for herself and felt much better now. She suggested we go to the dark underground cave, the Yellow Dragon Cave. It was said that millions of years ago a dragon died here and the narrow tunnel of the entrance was the shell of its intestines.
The cave was crowded, packed with humans who held jasmine in their hands, women who wore jasmine around their necks and in their hair. The Supervisor was following me, I suddenly noticed. And the two security guards were behind him.
The costume designer cheered when she saw the crowd. What fun! she said, and asked someone where to pick the jasmine. She pushed the crowd with her shoulder toward a light ray by the exit yards away. She said she must hurry and pick the jasmine before it was all gone. The passageway was so narrow that the unfamiliar bodies were jammed and squeezed together. The sour smell of sweat mixed with jasmine. I moved toward him. I hoped that he would hold my hand again. I hoped hard. I waited. The smell of jasmine grew stronger. He moved closer in the crowd. The two men disappeared. He was next to me. Our breaths touched. I offered him my hand. He did not react. He did not grab my hand. Petals of the destroyed jasmine were all over me.
I blamed myself, my silliness. But my silliness was powerful. I was ruled by it, commanded by it. Yet there was my will. I purposefully avoided toasting with the Supervisor at the last dinner party, held on a large boat carved with images of dragons and phoenixes. I toasted with everybody else. I toasted with Cheering Spear and Soviet Wong. Farewell and take care, my lips opened and closed mechanically. I told myself everything would be gone forever in a day, so stop hoping and snap out of it. I drank with the crew.
Cheering Spear was drunk. She began to sing a children’s song. She sang “Pulling the radish, pulling the radish” and she laughed down to the floor. Getting up, she vomited. Soviet Wong went to take Cheering Spear to her room. The celebration continued.
The Supervisor acted as if our fingers had never touched. He smiled at the crew members. He faked it well. He unbuttoned his blue Mao jacket. He wore a white shirt inside. His long, fine fingers held a wine glass. His cheeks were red and the color made his skin look like a young woman’s. When the head of the lighting crew, Big Tai, challenged him to a drinking contest, he accepted.
The crew cheered and gathered around the table to watch. Big Tai was a huge, strong man of about fifty, a bachelor who had always adored the Supervisor. He praised him as the most beautiful man he had ever seen, and said that he would do anything to be close to him. People had warned the Supervisor not to get too close to Big Tai because he had weird problems-he was always finding excuses to make trouble for girlish-looking men.
The Supervisor took a glass of rice wine and drank it down as Big Tai took his. Their glasses were filled again by the crew members. I hid myself in a corner where the light failed to reach, feeling my mind getting stiff. Big Tai was a good drinker. The Supervisor’s face, after three toasts, was as white as a Japanese paper doll’s. The crew members waited excitedly for a good time. They quieted down after the Supervisor and Big Tai emptied their fourth glasses.
Big Tai suggested they go fishing off the boat. The costume designer laughed on her way to borrow equipment from the man who drove the boat. Big Tai pulled out two fishing rods and gave one to the Supervisor. Shaking, the Supervisor took a small piece of food from his plate and stuck it on the hook. They threw the hooks into the water. The boat advanced smoothly.
From the distance a goose cried. The costume designer said it was mating season. The geese liked to mate under water, and always at night. The male goose had beautiful feathers, magnificently colored, but the female was plain, like a duck. They licked each other’s necks after mating. It’s terribly disgusting, said the costume designer.
Big Tai leaned back in the chair, his face swollen. His eyes seemed so small, smaller than the eyes of a fat rabbit. He put his glass down and reached out his hand toward the Supervisor’s face. He laughed, showing his silver tooth. He said that he thought the Supervisor was more beautiful than a woman. He asked, Why are you a man? You shouldn’t be a man-you ruin your looks when you dress like a man.
The Supervisor suggested a refill. Toast! Toast! The crew members encouraged. After the fifth glass, Big Tai began waving his arms and kicking his legs in the air. The Supervisor said there was a fish on the hook. He had heard a sound and was sure that a big fish was caught. Big Tai walked with difficulty toward the rod. He fell into the water while pulling the fish up. The costume designer got a huge net, and the crew members helped to get man and fish out of the water.
The Supervisor turned around. He caught me watching him. He walked toward me. I found myself shaking, about to vomit. I smelled jasmine and was reminded of the afternoon at Yellow Dragon Cave. I went to the costume designer and helped pull Big Tai back onto the boat. Big Tai was sleeping soundly despite the pulling and dragging. Water came out of his mouth. The crew members laughed and laughed. Those almond eyes were fixed on me. I stretched my facial muscles to laugh with the other people.
The next morning the bus was ready to take off back to Shanghai when the Supervisor stepped on. I lowered my head, pretending that I was checking my notes. He came near, then sat down behind me. He asked for the total number of the takes we shot at the location. I did not reply. I knew I didn’t have to. I knew he didn’t really want to know the numbers. We sat in silence. The bus took off in the heat. The crew members sang a song about being a wanderer. Cheering Spear gave everyone farewell cards she made herself with paper cutouts and pink ribbons.
We reached Shanghai in the afternoon. The bus stopped at the studio’s front gate. The Supervisor stood up and shook hands with the crew members one after another. He wished everyone good health and a good life. The crew members wished him a safe trip to Beijing. When his hand reached out for mine, I did not give myself a chance. I refused to suffer this closeness. Letting his hand hang in the air, I stood up and got off the bus.
I quickly pulled my bicycle out of the parking lot. The back tire was flat. I decided to put up with it. I rode toward the gate. The wheels rolling over the dry maple leaves on the pavement made cracking sounds. Something pulled me from behind. You’ve got a flat tire. It was his voice. Never mind about it, I said without turning my head. He refused to let go of the bicycle. I turned around. He made an effort to smile. Say a nice goodbye, he suggested. I looked away. He said, People are watching us. I said, I know they are. The nasty, lusty pigs, he said.
I was suffering. I couldn’t help myself. I began to pedal again. He let go of my bicycle and said, I want you to meet me at the Peace Park tonight at seven-thirty.
I sat by the window, my thought drifting. I did not hear my mother calling me for dinner. I did not hear anything but the crawling sound of my thoughts. I went to a desk and quickly pulled out a pen and a notebook. I tore a piece of paper from the notebook. I could not write what I wanted to. My mother came. She held my hands. She said, You are hot. She suggested I take off my sweater. I did. I looked at my mother and suddenly found that I was so much like her. I had inherited her stubbornness. I inherited her passion. That I must live for myself was in my veins. Even if it were only a dream, so be it.
The Peace Park was located next to Dragon Sight Crematorium. It was a park with few visitors. Most people who came here were mourners, the relatives of the dead. I felt safe in the dark. Getting off the bus, I looked around. The smell of incense wafted over from a nearby cemetery. I made sure that I was not followed. I paid five cents at the gate and entered the park.
The quietness was extraordinary. Trees and leaves were thick as walls. I wandered in between the trees as I fixed my eyes on the entrance. At eight o’clock I saw him. He came up to me from behind, dressed in black. We went into the shadow of the trees where the lights were like the eyes of ghosts. We stopped, facing each other, by a big tree trunk. He said he had been here since seven. He was glad that I had come. I said that I was glad too. We ran out of words to say. We walked toward the thick trees. I could hear my heart beat.
