There she stood, in that shaft of sunlight, her face communicating a slight bashfulness, permitting his caresses as though she were a living statue tolerating the final refinements of her sculptor. Her hands, which she'd been running through his hair, weakened, and then her legs. A feeling of light-headedness was spreading through her body, quickening the tremble that had taken hold of her limbs. And yet his hands and eyes continued their work, moving slowly down from her breasts. Tears of ecstasy clung to the tips of her lower eyelashes, and swayed as if about to fall, until she burst into urgent sobs.
`What's wrong?' he asked.
'I feel terribly dizzy,' she replied.
'You'd better get dressed,' he said, alarmed. 'I'll phone the Division hospital.'
'No, there's no need for that. Just carry me to the bed and go on kissing me, touching me whereveryou want. Forget I'm the Division Commander's wifefor the time being I'm your wife and you can have free run of me.'
He lifted her weak, limp form onto the bed, as one would put a baby down to sleep, then began kissing her with a crazed intensity, every tiny part of her, from her hair, forehead and nose downward — now delicately, like a dragonfly skimming the surface of a lake, now insistently, forgetting everything but a feverish desire to consume her with his lips. If he lingered too long on a particular spot, her hands would eventually caress his head with a gentle reminder, prompting a reluctant, regretful farewell as he continued on his way. When his lips explored her own, the tears streamed-with a kind of joyful sorrow-from her eyes to pool in dark circles on the green sheet and thick red velvet pillow. When, however, his tongue at last insinuated its way between her legs, her hands fell-as lifelessly as two pieces of rope from his head onto the bed, and her cries died away into an abrupt silence.
He immediately stopped everything he was doing.
He looked up to discover she'd taken on a deathly, waxen pallor.
She had, he could see, fainted-from excitement.
The room had fallen as quiet as the grave. He circled around and around her, shaking her, calling out to her, his sweat dripping onto her naked body and the rumpled bed. A few seconds later, however, he came round from his panic and recovered some sense of calm. Recalling his basic first aid training, he pulled on his underpants, opened the window and door, laid a towel out in the doorway, picked Liu Lian up and placed her down on it. And there she lay, peacefully, like a large white fish.
The breeze blew in through the window, bringing a welcome coolness. A large cloud had passed in front of the sun, shading the Division Commander's compound like a parasol. As Liu Lian maintained her silent prostration, Wu Dawang kept an equally silent watch over her. A few times he considered pinching her, or giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but always chose to stay where he was instead: unmoving, by her side. Gloomy thoughts of home forced their way into his mind: of his wife Zhao Ezi writing about the harvest, about tying their son to that tree, about the child almost choking to death on a locust. These thoughts triggered in him a peasant's violent, covetous hatred of the easy, sophisticated city life and its glorious free love that could never be his. He stared at Liu Lian, a dreadful hope taking hold of him. How marvellous it would be, he thought, if she really did die. The moment he'd thought it, this idea somehow took root in his head and grew into a powerful impulse to place his hands on that long, smooth, slender white neck of hers.
Fortunately, at that very moment, she woke up.
Tilting her head to one side, she took in her surroundings, including Wu Dawang. She then pulled herself weakly up into a sitting position. `It's been worth it,' she said, `it's all been worth it. I can die happy now.'
He shivered to hear her talk of dying, as if she had seen right through him, and into the terrible, ridiculous idea that had just seized him. Nervous that his murderous instincts had in some way betrayed themselves, he leaned over attentively and took her hand. `How do you feel?' he asked her. `You scared me half to death. You fainted, it was all my fault.'
She looked gratefully at him, tears wetting the corners of her eyes, and stroked his face. `Would you bring me my clothes?' she asked. He picked them up from the table and helped her get dressed, the two of them still sitting on the towel, talking away, holding each other's hands.
`I wish you were my husband,' she said.
`You're the Division Commander's wife,' he reminded her. `You're the envy of every woman in China.'
`That may be.' After a brief, slanting glance away, she looked straight back at him. A blush returned to her cheeks. `Do you know why the Commander's first wife divorced him?'
He answered her only with an expression of surprise.
`He's impotent.'
He continued to stare at her in silent, mounting amazement.
But she had nothing more to say. After heaving a long, pained sigh-a sigh that hinted at an unutterable sadness — she changed the subject, as if the mere act of breathing out had dispelled her sorrow in a single puff. `You want to be an official, don't you?' she asked after a brief pause.
`Yes, like every other soldier in the army.'
'Why? And don't tell me it's because you want to Serve the People or anything like that. I want to know the real reason.'
He hesitated. `It'll make you angry.'
It won't, I promise. I know you want your wife to join you here.' She smiled a magnanimous smile. `I'm your Sister, remember. I understand these things. Don't worry, I'll help you. All promotions are suspended at the moment but the minute things start moving again I'll sort it out for your family.' Her tears started up again, for no clear reason as if there were other things she wanted to say to him but this was not the moment. She stood up and went in search of a comb. `What do you want to eat?'
`I'll cook whatever you want,' he answered.
She smiled. `I'm your wife, remember. I'll cook whatever you want.'
Then down the stairs they went, hand in hand, to prepare lunch. In the kitchen, they both immediately spotted the Serve the People! sign lying on the table, and smiled. `Serve the People,' he said. `Sit down and rest.'
`Fight Selfishness and Criticize Revisionism,' she replied. `Sit down and rest yourself.'
`We've Come Together for a Common Revolutionary Goal,' he countered back. `Let's cook together.'
'The People,' she concluded, `and the People Alone, are the Driving Force of History. Let's make a competition of it, to find out who's the better cook.'
Between them, they produced two meat and two vegetable dishes: Liu Lian worked on cucumber with scrambled egg, and green pepper with diced pork, while he made stewed chicken and stir-fried aubergines. After each had sampled the other's, she declared hers superior, while he championed his. She was from south China, she argued, it stood to reason she would cook better than a rough northerner. He'd won second place in an army cookery competition, he countered; the Division Commander had chosen him for his culinary prowess. She flashed a mysterious smile at him. The meek will inherit the Revolution,' she said, as if conceding partial defeat. 'I'11 award you a narrow victory in the main course. But wait until you've tried my soup.' She then prepared a soup of dried shrimps and stewed white gourd.