This poem reminded me of the divination picked by the bird:
I sighed, muttering, “Gao, If only on that day I had the courage to say I love you….”
But what most affected me was Gao’s most recent entry:
I’ll never forget the evening we risked our lives making love right next to my boss’s cabin on the ocean liner en route to Paris. We both knew we were right next to the tiger’s lair.
I’d had to strip-search Camilla as usual, but this time was driven by a demon so powerful that I’d perish if I couldn’t control it.
I was prepared for a slap from her hand, a bite from her teeth, or a kick from her feet. But the same demon seemed to have infested her. So she did not protest when I pulled up her dress and lifted her onto the sink. It lasted only a few minutes, minutes I can never forget. Even though it was not in a warm bed but on a cold sink.
There had never been anything remotely like this with my poor wife.
I remember one night when I came home very late, hoping that she would already be asleep. But when I let myself in the house, there she was waiting for me under a solitary lamp. The light cast shadows on her face, accentuating her deep wrinkles. She had aged so much since our marriage. I was surprised to feel a tug at my heart—for the first time.
She took my coat, then went into the kitchen to fix me a late-night snack. Feeling sorry for her, I decided to wash the dishes afterward for her.
Even with the splashing water inside the kitchen, I could overhear her sobbing in the bedroom. That this little act of kindness touched her so much made me feel very ashamed. When I finished washing, I tried to delay joining her in bed. Finally, I turned off the light, tiptoed inside the bedroom so as not to wake her. Then I took off my clothes and slipped into bed next to her unwanted body.
As I was finally dozing off, I sensed her moving next to me. This went on for a while until I felt a warm surge. Then I realized it was my wife’s hand playing with my sex!
I lay still as a corpse. But this time she was not going to give up. She kept doing this until I got so aroused that I climbed on top of her and did my husbandly duty. Finally, she screamed softly and I was released.
I woke very early the next morning and quickly left for work. After feeling her need for me, I was even more ashamed of myself for the way I had treated her all these past years. And also for our foolish parents who forced us together.
If only Camilla and I had met before…
When she was pregnant, I had hoped that the baby was mine, but she never mentioned this, so it must not be.
As I set the book down, I noticed a scrap of paper protruding from between the pages. I pulled it out and saw that it was a newspaper clipping with my picture. I realized that I had never given Gao a picture of me.
I murmured to myself in the dingy restaurant, “Gao, please don’t be a revolutionary and get yourself killed. I can’t be your wife, but I still care for you….”
Then I thought of a poem from a thousand years ago:
I felt tears fill my eyes. Embarrassed, I left a few bills on the table and quickly exited the restaurant. I looked up at the sky and silently asked, “Gao, are you still alive?”
But heaven rarely deigns to answer us mortals’ questions.
It would be futile to look for Gao, especially if he’d really joined the revolution. But there were many other ways he might have been killed. Though he would always have a place in my heart, I had to face that the time had come for me to let go and move on. My future was with Jinying, Jinjin, and Peiling. But before departing, I needed to go to the Huangpu River one last time.
The legend goes that there is an ancient tortoise living on the river’s bottom. Once in a while, he’ll rise up to the surface to greet the passersby on the riverbank. Those who are fortunate enough to meet this fabulous animal will attain the same longevity for which it is famous. One can also pray to him for the longevity of loved ones. But only a few are so lucky—the tortoise only appears every thirty or forty years.
I planned to use my “heavenly” voice to lure the tortoise up to the surface to bestow longevity and good luck upon the people I loved. I doubted I would be able to return to Shanghai again, certainly not on the chance of seeing a reclusive turtle.
Once at the riverbank, I went to my favorite spot under the colossal goddess statue. As I was scanning the waves for the tortoise, I began to sing my best tunes from my Heavenly Songbird days: “How Can I Stop Thinking of You”; “Looking for You”; “It’s Rare We Can Be Together”… Today, my songs were tributes to Gao, our hopeless love—briefly rubbing shoulders in this Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust….
The river, as it had in Confucius’s time, flowed endlessly. But as much as I strained my eyes, no longevity tortoise appeared. So I simply sent my good wishes for my loved ones to the waves as they flowed gently by.
Sadness welled up in me as I thought of all our lives flowing on, like the river. Madame Lewinsky, Shadow, Gao, even Lung and Wang. I felt as if the people I had lost were holes in my heart.
When I finished my solitary singing, feeling drained, I made my way to the main street, planning to take a rickshaw to take me back to my waiting family. When I was waving at the passing vehicles, I saw a street urchin shouting, “Haowai! Haowai!” (“special news,” or “extra edition”).
In my present discouraged mood, I assumed that it must be some bad news about someone I knew. I waved urgently to the urchin, paid him a few cents, took the newspaper, and leaned on a tree to read.
Early this morning, what passersby took to be a simple punctured tire turned out to be a gangster’s revenge shooting.
When the driver got off his bus to check the tires, a black car pulled up and several men emerged holding guns. The driver was ordered to stay where he was. Meanwhile, all the passengers were ordered off the bus—except one.
As the stunned driver and his passengers were waiting nervously on the road by the bus, men began to shoot through the windows. The victim screamed, but the shooting continued until the screams stopped. Then, total silence. The shooters got back in their car and drove away, leaving all the other passengers terrified but unhurt.
The murdered man has yet to be identified. The police suspect the deceased played some role in the recent wars between the Red Demons and Flying Dragons. But no one on the bus will admit to recognizing any of the shooters.
The victim had to be Gao. I couldn’t talk myself out of this dismal conclusion. As I kept reading the brief story over and over, the print began to blur and the newspaper slipped from my grasp and fell to the ground amidst the leftover breakfasts and other litter. I tried to steady myself and stumbled along.