In a store facing the harbor, Michael bought sandwiches, fruit, and drinks for our picnic. Then we headed toward the beach in the company of the moon.
He found a small hill overlooking the sea, but hidden from the beach by thickets of trees, plants, and exotic flowers.
“Perfect for our decadent talk,” he said, while spreading out a cloth and arranging the food.
We sat side by side and quietly ate our sandwiches, sipped mineral water, and nibbled apples while feeling our bodies touch each other, watched silently by the moon. In the distance the sea roared, sending white-capped waves to break on the shore. Faint snatches of Cantonese opera tunes carried from the village. I saw the silhouette of a young couple holding tightly onto one another as if fearing even the slightest breeze would blow them apart. Were they walking before love, or after? Not far away, a young man arched his back to hurl something into the sea. A wish to be picked up? Or a hurt to be washed away?
We finished eating and I hugged my knees, listening to the cicadas’ small, persistent call until I felt my whole body ache with a longing I’d never known. Then suddenly I realized my dress had slid up to reveal my thighs, which glowed pearlescent under the moonlight. I quickly pulled my dress down, then took several deep breaths, taking in the fragrance of the vegetation, all the while conscious of Michael’s intent eyes. Our hips touched. I peeked at his legs, warm and tanned, outstretched as if waiting to be caressed. I noticed their golden hairs glimmering faintly in the moonlight and resisted the urge to touch. I closed my eyes, aware of his body and its pleasant fragrance of mint and the sea.
Michael slowly turned my face toward his, cupped my chin with his hands, and began to search my lips with his. After a long time, he opened my mouth with his tongue, which began to indulge itself in all sorts of decadent pleasures. His hands, large, warm, and eager, moved under my blouse, then my bra. Feeling a rush of desire, I clutched his strong torso.
I felt small under him. Behind him the big, round moon glistened like an enlarged pearl. A star drifted close by. Like me, she wouldn’t feel lonely tonight. I held Michael tighter.
My knees weakened and my heart thrashed like a trapped bird. I felt caught and free, wretched and blissful all at once. Until somehow my awareness lifted. In this game between a man and a woman, I suddenly glimpsed the jeweled flowers of the Western Paradise and felt oddly at home. The sea droned in the distance, echoing Michael’s breathing. I imagined other lovers also exploring and enjoying each other somewhere on the island, under the watch of the same moon.
And then I covered my face and wiped away a tear. I did like men. I was also upset that Michael, now holding me in his arms and caressing my damp hair, remained so calm and silent. It frightened me that this man seemed gentler than I, yet stronger; that so close to me, he seemed so distant; that he was so kind, and yet so unknown. Let-Go-and-Be-Carefree, his face now serene under the moonlight, was the only man I’d ever let into my life. Suddenly I wondered about his life. What other women had he kissed? Whose sighs had he heard? Whose breasts had he caressed? His hands were large, with fingers as expressive as if they were able to breathe. Men’s hands had seemed monstrous and belligerent to me before, but his held comfort and gentleness.
I went home late that evening, feeling dazed. Mother came up to sniff at me. “Ah, Meng Ning, I don’t smell alcohol, but you look drunk. Is something wrong?”
“No, Ma, I’m fine.” I headed straight to my bedroom.
Mother muttered as I was closing the door. “Oh yes,” she said emphatically, “it’s a man I smell!”
I locked the door and didn’t turn on the light; I had no heart to keep the moon out. Then I went to the mirror, took off all my clothes, and looked at my naked reflection under the moonlight. I stared at the thirty-year-old body that until tonight had never been so touched, nor so aroused. I searched the still-smooth face, narrow shoulders, small breasts, flat stomach, spindly legs, and the small area of black hair that, in the past, I had avoided looking at. But tonight I reached my hand to touch…
Slowly, like a cat, I felt my way into bed and inhaled deeply at the silky texture of the sheets against my naked body. I ran my hand over my breasts, remembering Michael’s warm, luxurious touch. While my body was serene in the darkness, disturbing memories weaved a confusing tapestry: images of the powerful Yi Kong, of the scarred nun at the retreat, my ex-nun friend Dai Nam, No Name and her fiancé, my father and my mother’s ruined life…
At three in the afternoon I awakened with a terrible headache. Mother slammed down a steaming bowl of chicken rice soup. “Some gweilo called early this morning, so I said wrong number!”
I burned my tongue on the hot liquid. “Ma, why didn’t you wake me up? Maybe it was for me!”
Mother snapped, “Then why did you lock your door when you slept?”
11. The Proposal
I called the Kowloon Hotel and asked for Michael several times, but each time the syrupy, professional voice of the receptionist told me he was out. Finally Michael called back at five, but I was quite upset because now we’d only have a few hours together before he had to fly back to New York tomorrow.
I could hear the tension in his voice. “Meng Ning, I called several times in the morning, but a woman kept telling me that I dialed the wrong number.”
“That’s my mother.”
“Hope she’s not offended.”
“I don’t think so. She’s just overprotective of me.”
Our conversation was brief and somewhat strained; however, toward the end, it started to brighten up when Michael invited me to dinner, then asked if I’d like to go to the Cultural Centre to see a Chinese opera performance.
We went to Tsim Sha Tsui and dined at the Merit Forest Vegetarian Restaurant. After dinner, Michael and I strolled down Nathan Road toward the Cultural Centre. Neither of us mentioned what had happened between us the previous night.
As we were window-shopping, enveloped by the heat and noise of the boulevard, I noticed our reflections in the glass. Michael’s arm encircled my waist; I nestled my head on his shoulder. Bathed in the shimmering neon light, he looked cheerful, as usual. His beige suit hung well on his broad shoulders, and his flowered tie in burgundy, brass, and amber complemented my floral dress in Chinese imperial yellow. My face was flushed and my hair tumbled loosely around my shoulders. Mother was right; I looked drunk-in a man’s aura.
Once inside the Cultural Centre, Michael excused himself to get us drinks. I looked around and saw that on the pink-tiled walls, colorful banners advertised upcoming performances. One, advertising a Beijing opera, showed a heavily made-up figure in a pearl-tasseled crown and a many-layered, sequined costume. But “she” was a man. Beneath the banner a group of expensively dressed tai tais, society women, were discussing this impersonator. One-her plump, gold-bangled hand gesturing in big movements-spoke shrilly: “He can play a young widow so well because he’s a man, so he’s not inhibited. That’s why he can express a woman’s frustrated sexual desire so openly.”
Her friend in a pink suit nodded. “But if a woman acted like that, could she have face to go home to her husband?”
A pretty one in an embroidered Chinese dress chimed in, her diamond teardrop earrings swaying erotically in the air. “Ah, Mrs. Chan, you don’t have to worry.” She winked. “If she acted like that I bet her husband would find her even more desirable!”
They all giggled, covering their mouths with their brightly manicured, many-ringed fingers.