"But I never wanted to be like that. I have no idea why I treated you like that. Niuniu, I swear it. I need you, I want you, I love you."
I persisted, "You have to go now. My mother will be calling me for dinner in a little while."
Ti heaved a sigh and said resignedly, "All right, Niuniu. I'll come to see you again tomorrow."
"I don't want you to come again," I answered in haste.
"I won't touch you, I swear, Niuniu. I just want to see you, to take you for dinner, to talk to you," Ti said, his damp eyes downcast. He paused a moment, then continued, "Niuniu, I apologize for my crude behavior today."
He had jettisoned all his former stiffness of manner.
A fly buzzing around in circles by the bedroom window made it seem like the glass in the window was undulating and my bed beneath the window was swaying unsteadily. From that moment on, it seemed, the entire room would never feel safe and secure again.
Ti's eyes turned toward the big bed, its flax-colored sheets like some spotless, forbidden zone denying him the fulfillment of his desire. The last rays of the setting sun cast a pink glow on the center of the bed like the warm color of flower petals staining a milk-white skin, or the still-warm blood flower of a just-taken virgin.
Unable to stand steadily and gasping for breath, he collapsed on the bed.
The bed gave out a forlorn and bitter cry.
13 Yinyang Grotto…
He made the events of their past die quickly in her body. Working like a bolt of lightning, he frightened her, hurt her, made her aware that her body had another mouth she didn't know about that also breathed and moaned. Slowly developed commitments were his enemy; the quick heat of friction was his friend. Penetrating the void within her, terminating her deep, obscuring sleep, he conquered time, driving it deep into the channel of her being…
Friction let him see the light of the sun. Friction made her smell the odor of death.
With some experiences, it is only afterward that I become aware of the extent of their effect upon me.
On that occasion, however, all that I could think of was getting out of this city, getting away from the chaos of my feelings…
The day after Ti's unexpected appearance, I hurriedly packed some things to go away.
I hardly slept at all the night before I left. The pressure of Ti's body against my skin and in my thoughts was with me constantly. I was enmeshed in a contradiction of denied desire and rejected yearning and at a loss to explain my needs or my actions.
By early morning, I had decided that I would get rid of my confusion by thoroughly distancing myself from its source.
Making use of the then current notion of "getting back to nature" (nothing more than an excuse), I told my mother that for the past several years I had been almost suffocating under the weight of books, living like a lifeless wooden puppet absurdly manipulated on the sticks of the university entrance exams and my future. Living in a city far away from nature had left me exhausted beyond measure. I needed to go somewhere to unwind, to clear my head.
When out of the blue I mentioned that I was going on a trip, Mother, quite taken aback, said, "You want to closet yourself away in some country village?"
"I'm going with Yi Qiu and some of our classmates. It's just for a few days, for a change of scenery," I lied.
Exceedingly anxious, and dubious about my travel plans, Mother trotted out something from her reading to dissuade me.
She said, "Those people who see nature find it wherever they are; those who cannot see it can never find it, no matter where they might be. Even if genuine nature were all around you, it doesn't necessarily mean that you would enjoy it. Your surroundings are not the source of your problem."
"But all I want to do is get some fresh air and sun," I said. Not about to let anything dissuade me, as I was speaking, I stubbornly continued stuffing my clothes into a canvas backpack.
Looking at my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes with an aching heart, my mother heaved a sigh and gave up trying to stop me.
I wasn't at all interested in looking at scenery or in having company. I liked traveling by myself because being with someone else or with a group interfered with my private thoughts.
Sitting by the window on the bus, looking at the hazy green mountains in the distance, the loess hills, the low-lying scattered villages, the quiet streams in the brown mountains, and the bare valleys, I began to feel an unexpected tranquility.
I took a room in a small, out-of-the-way inn outside the city. It was dim, gloomy, and simply appointed, but clean and quiet. A long path through lush grass and bright wildflowers connected it with the bus station. A few mournful steam whistles echoing melodiously in the evening mist provided a musical backdrop, and the evening breeze brushing my shoulders induced in me an expansive, relaxed happiness. The air carried a rich scent of lavender; and roses, strawberries, and a variety of flowering shrubs enclosed this otherwise rather bleak country inn in a confusion of color.
Several low green hedges willy-nilly formed an enclosure for a tiny park. I sat down on a secluded stone bench, a jacket around my shoulders, looking as if I were waiting for someone. In truth, there was no one for me to be waiting for, but I didn't feel the least bit lonely, because I was enjoying a moment of happiness that I myself had created.
Sitting there, I for some reason felt an urge to write someone a letter.
So I went back to the inn, where I sat cross-legged on the clean enough bed, placing the writing pad I had brought with me on my knees, with a book underneath for support.
But who was I going to write to? The first person to come to mind was Ho. Since we had never written to each other before, I thought that it would be perfect to write to her now that we were separated, using my imagination to draw a scene for her. She would no doubt find the most beautiful and the warmest landscapes of my spirit in the letter. I imagined her propped up in her big bed, her slender, delicate figure draped casually on it, like a piece of lustrous, soft silk. When she got my letter she would be surprised and overjoyed. She would touch every word as carefully as if she were touching my eyes.
I realized at that moment that I missed her very much.
After that, I wrote a letter to Ti, fiercely denouncing him for all the ways he had mistreated me over the years, telling him how much I hated him, how I couldn't stand living under the same sky, that I didn't want to see him again, that I never wanted to see him again, ever! But in the close of the letter I contradicted myself, saying that should the opportunity arise, perhaps I might see him again. But I knew that I would see him only to make him suffer out of his desire for my body. I would take great delight in seeing his torment.
Writing letters gives me extreme pleasure. There is no more effective way of experiencing the pleasure of getting away from people and living by yourself. All those faraway moments of sorrow and joy are so close you can reach out and touch them, while when you are actually among the people you know, such feelings can often elude you.
My letters written, I heaved a sigh of relief, as if the sole purpose of my journey had been to write them.
The next day, after I had dropped them off at the local post office, I found myself in a vacant mood. After a few days idly enjoying some of the scenic spots, I found myself thinking of going home.
In the morning, just as I was thinking of packing up to leave and paying my bill, there was a knock on the door.
I knew that it wasn't the chambermaid, because the knock seemed somehow hesitant, exploratory, and eager. It sounded like a familiar heartbeat. Though separated from it by the door, I knew that it was the same heartbeat that had lingered against my breast a few days earlier.