by Mingmei Yip
Of course the “Japanese couple,” or assassins, were also staying at Plaza Athénée. But in order not to arouse suspicion, they were no longer Japanese nor a couple but now an old widower and his nurse. Each morning, he’d have breakfast on the hotel’s terrace café, ready for my news, if any.
Early the next morning, while the others were still asleep, I went to the café, where I had a coffee while pretending to read the newspaper. Ten minutes later, I put the newspaper back on the rack and left. In my peripheral vision, I saw the widower go to pick up the newspaper I’d just left—with my note in it. How he would transact his business in Paris was not my concern; I just provided the information that Lung was having a meeting somewhere and suggested that he follow them. I hoped this time he would be able to get rid of Lung and end my troubles.
In the evening, only three of us, Jinying, a bodyguard, and me, had dinner at the hotel restaurant. After a full, satisfying meal, Jinying couldn’t wait to dismiss the guard so we could go to the opera alone. Fortunately, the bodyguard was more than happy to have the rest of the evening to himself, so he could go to the red-light district, get drunk, then hire a woman’s pleasurable treasure trough. Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone about his private adventure. Especially since Jinying gave him a big tip. Besides, he would not be so stupid as to tell the others he’d had an evening off and left the boss’s son unprotected.
The Chinese say, “There is always a mountain taller than the one you live on.” So, when I had thought that the Plaza Athénée was the most grandiose building I’d ever seen, I was soon proved wrong. Now it seemed nothing could compare to this palatial opera house. The sumptuous interior was bathed in shimmering gold, orange, and ivory-white. Sculptures, candelabra, and paintings adorned ceiling and floor, corners and niches, archways and stairways.
As Jinying led me past a few elegantly dressed couples to mount a long flight of marble stairs, I felt like a goddess ascending to heaven. The corners of my lips, despite my effort to press them down, stubbornly refused to droop like a capsized boat but adamantly remained in the shape of a crescent moon.
Soon we settled in balcony seats that would no doubt cost an ordinary working person a full month’s salary.
Jinying took my hand and put it to his lips. This time I let him, for Lung and his people were in a meeting elsewhere, and I hoped that this elsewhere would soon be their graveyard. However, I did not want Gao to accompany Lung and Zhu on their way to hell. Like the young master, he loved me and was good to me. At least for my vanity, if not my heart, I wanted him alive to keep loving and protecting me forever.
Jinying now looked a lot happier than he had in my room two days ago. “Are you enjoying this, Camilla?”
I nodded, then continued to look around. All around me was wealth and elegance but also pomposity and snobbishness. Did these rich and privileged people really love opera or merely love the idea of being opera buffs? I looked back at Jinying. He was equally rich and privileged, but his passion for opera was as genuine as his father’s love for money and power.
Tonight’s performance was Madame Butterfly, Puccini’s famous work, which I knew because Madame Lewinsky sometimes sung arias from it for me. Unfortunately it was a tragedy, which I was not in the mood for. My life was unfortunate enough; I felt no need to be entertained by someone else’s misfortune. Nevertheless, I still felt lucky to be watching a famous opera in the formidable Paris Opera House. So I decided to set aside my troubles for the next two hours to let myself enjoy some fleeting musical moments.
Before the performance started, I reflected on what I knew about the story.
Madame Butterfly, or Cio-Cio San, was a geisha procured to be the wife of B. F. Pinkerton, an American Navy Lieutenant. Although Pinkerton was at first infatuated with his beautiful, fragile Japanese lover, he never took the union seriously. She was but a romantic diversion to fill his lonely days in a foreign country. He always intended that someday he would go back to his country and marry a real American wife.
After Pinkerton’s departure back to the United States, Madame Butterfly and their young son waited patiently and faithfully for his return. During her interminable wait, the devoted Cio-Cio San even turned down the marriage proposal of a wealthy prince. But Cio-Cio San’s devotion was rewarded only by heartbreak. One day Pinkerton did return—with his American wife. Mortified, Cio-Cio San sent her son to play in the garden, then killed herself.
In the dreamy atmosphere of the grand hall, as we waited for the performance to begin, Jinying took my hand and stared at me with his dark, intense eyes. “Camilla, I’m so happy to see this opera with you.”
I said nonchalantly, “Don’t be.”
He looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“Why are you so happy? This is a tragedy, and the world already has enough sorrow.”
“Oh, Camilla, this is just a play.”
I retorted, “You should know our situation better, Young Master.”
He withdrew his hand as hurt spread over his face. “But can’t we just enjoy ourselves for this moment, even though it’s fleeting? Can’t we dream and linger in the evanescence for a while, while we can?”
“As you wish,” I said calmly.
My whole life, I’d been trained to live, or endure, each moment but never to enjoy it. I never forgot that I was a girl with no past or future, just the dangerous present. So how could I not grasp this fleeting moment? I remembered I read that Zen Buddhism says if you can truly live in the moment, you won’t have any worries. Just look at me, and you’ll believe the opposite!
Finally the curtain began to rise, and the orchestra struck its first note. This was the first time I’d seen a Western opera or even heard a full Western orchestra, and suddenly I couldn’t help but feel elated. Although I didn’t understand the strange-sounding language, I loved the music. The acting was quite exaggerated, especially that of the actress who played Cio-Cio San. Her makeup too; it was so heavy that I couldn’t tell if she was a man or a woman or Asian or Western.
I turned to peek at Jinying and saw that he was totally immersed in the tragic illusion unfolding onstage. If he realized that my life offstage was equally elusive and tragic, would he still be as attracted to me as he was to the opera heroine? I sighed inside. Would I taste happiness someday? If happiness was the man now sitting right next to me, should I reach and grasp it tightly in my hand?
Pondering, I had been only intermittently following the story until the last act, when Cio-Cio San, her heart irretrievably broken by Pinkerton’s unfeeling one, was about to end her tragic life. Although I already knew the story, I was still stunned when the actress onstage sent her son away, sang her last song, then plunged a knife into her already shattered heart. How sad that love could drive a woman, even one with a young, adorable son, onto this path of no return.
Why is love—and the falling in and out of it—such an overwhelming force? It brought Cio-Cio San to death but Liniang in the Peony Pavilion back to life. Which would be the outcome of Jinying’s imprudent love for me? A happy life—or death?
The performance was a tremendous success. The thunderous clapping seemed to last a whole incarnation. The actors came out three times to bow and thank the audience. It was nice to see that “Cio-Cio San,” who had been the personification of tragedy, was now as happy as a tickled baby.
Finally, when we made our way through the crowd to the outside, leaving the glory of the opera house behind, Jinying asked, “Did you like it?”
“It was sad,” I said softly.
“Then let’s take a walk along the Seine—its tranquility will pacify your mind. After that, we’ll have a drink at a nice café. How’s that?”
“Sounds good,” I responded, not knowing what to feel anymore.
The leisurely flowing Seine, the luminous moonlight, the looming mystery of Notre Dame playing hide-and-seek in the fog were so beautiful that, strangely, instead of making me feel poetic or amorous, they made me sadder. I feared that if I allowed my
self pleasure, or anything even agreeable, disaster would strike. After all, wasn’t I a spy and a wicked person who didn’t deserve happiness, nor even a beautiful evening accompanied by a kind, handsome man?
Jinying put his arm around me as we ambled along the quay. There were not many people about, only a few couples here and there. Some sat on the benches watching the occasional pleasure boats float by. Others, like us, strolled along, quietly accompanied by the soft sounds of the river. Under trees or behind the wall, couples kissed passionately, unperturbed by curious eyes or heated whispers.
My daily meditation on the Huangpu River always gave me a sense of calm that was much needed in my chaotic life. But this equally famous river in an exotic land did not give me the same calmness; instead it stirred something deep and dark inside me. But what that was I couldn’t yet name.
We continued to walk. Suddenly, when we were passing a big boulder, Jinying pulled me behind it and pressed his mouth to mine. His searching, burning lips were so urgent that I could almost read what was on his mind: Time is running out, so let’s enjoy these exquisite moments before they vanish! Instead of pushing him away, I surprised myself by responding passionately to his advances. I pressed my body hard against his until I felt his sex burgeoning. My hands, like a naughty beggar’s, ambushed his body’s forbidden places.
After we had kissed and caressed for a while, I pushed the young master away to take a good look at him. His face was glowing, his lips moist, and his breathing deep, as he savored the aftertaste of our illicit acts. I searched his eyes, trying to find something there to comfort me, to change my mind. To save me from sinking, and eventually drowning, in love, in life.
He spoke. “Camilla, I can’t go on like this. I love you too much. You’re killing me.”
I remained silent. What else could be done?
He touched my cheek, his hand warm and gentle. “Camilla, let’s elope.”
A few seconds passed before I asked, “You’ve suggested this many times.”
He nodded.
“Then where, and how?”
“I’ll find a way. I have to. I can’t live like this.”
I didn’t respond, fearing any words, or even an exhalation, would blow away his promise and my hope.
Jinying possessed a lot of good traits; unfortunately being street-smart was not one of them. He’d been sheltered too much and for too long to realize what he was up against. How could someone who had never met any challenges in real life imagine that he could get the better of his cunning and powerful gangster father?
“Jinying, why don’t we just enjoy the moment? It’s so beautiful out here.”
He nodded, then took my hand and wrapped it in his.
As I felt the warmth from his whole being, I also felt nausea rising in my chest. A terrible thought, like a malignant ghost, crept through my mind, a thought I could not exorcise. I nodded toward an empty bench some dozen yards ahead of us. “Jinying, my feet are hurting. Can you go save that bench so it won’t be taken?”
He looked at me curiously. “But I can carry you to it.”
I pointed again, into the distance. “See that couple over there? Looks like they’re going to sit down, so please get there first, quickly! I’ll follow you. I just can’t walk fast enough with these heels.”
“All right,” he said reluctantly, then hurried toward the bench.
When Jinying was some distance away, I immediately turned around, rushed behind a clump of shrubs to hide myself from sight, and jumped off the tall quay into the Seine.
As I fell, tears rained down my face, quickly becoming one with the expanse of water. Nineteen years of miseries, sufferings, and loneliness had hit me like a witch’s broomstick. Tears stored up for nineteen years finally had their chance, their last and only one, to make their escape into eternity. Nothing would trouble me anymore, for I’d soon leave this pitiless world that, from the very beginning, had offered me little but cruelty. Of course the world wouldn’t care one way or the other. It had not cared when I was alive, nor would it after I was gone. Rivers, whether in the East or the West, would continue to flow on endlessly day and night. I was a nobody, an orphan. There were no relatives to give me a proper burial, so this beautiful river in a strange country would be my final resting place. Here, no one would find me or remember that I was once a living soul... .
Instead of feeling sadness, when my body hit the cold water, a euphoric sensation engulfed me. I was not sure if Jinying heard the splash, but I no longer cared. There would be no good-byes. Mere minutes from now, the world that had so oppressed me would be gone.
As I was letting myself sink and feeling the cold water seeping into my eyes, ears, mouth, and bones, I heard Jinying’s desperate cry ripping the air.
“What happened, Camilla? Camilla! Help! Someone fell into the river—please help!”
Soon my only sensation was the cold water, invading all my orifices. Yes, I was going to die. I was dying... .
But then why did I still hear a loud splash? Someone else had jumped into the river. Jinying! Why would he do that?
Fool. Please stop being a fool for once, I beg you, Young Master!
Then I felt my chilled body being held and lifted, and soon my head rose above the water, and I was face-to-face with the same world I’d just left behind. I sucked in big gulps of the life-giving air that I’d thought I’d no longer need. The world had not changed; it was still indifferent and cruel, with me or without me. Why couldn’t heaven have just left me to perish so I could enter the blissful state of oblivion?
After pulling me to safety, Jinying gently laid my shivering, sopping body on the bank. Several people rushed toward us and began to ask questions in a language I didn’t understand.
Jinying waved them away, speaking in English. “It’s okay. She just leaned too far and fell in accidentally. Don’t worry, I’ll get her back to the hotel.”
A young man asked in accented English, “You want me to call ambulance?”
Jinying smiled faintly. “No, it’s really not necessary. She ‘s fine. But you can call us a taxi if you don’t mind.”
Jinying lifted me in his arms and carefully labored up the long steps, leaving the other people behind whispering heatedly in French.
Jinying bent his head to stare at me, his body and mine trembling in sync. “Camilla, oh, Camilla ...”
The water dripping from our clothes left a long trail on the stairs, looking like blood in the dark.
It was a long ordeal for him to ascend the narrow steps to ground level. When we reached the top, a taxi was waiting with the door open and the young couple standing guard. Jinying lifted me inside, then crawled in after me. He thanked the couple profusely and gave the driver the hotel’s address. From the rearview mirror, the driver cast us curious glances and opened his mouth as if to ask something. But then it seemed he had second thoughts and decided against it. Inside the speeding car, the young master cradled me like a baby, probably trying to transmit his body heat to me without realizing that his body was just as soaked and cold as mine. With a trembling hand, Jinying gently smoothed aside my matted hair as he cooed soothing words into my ear.
When the car arrived at the hotel, Jinying signaled the driver to pull up at the back entrance so our bedraggled presence would not cause a stir. A few minutes later we had made our way to my room.
After Jinying put me on the sofa, I said, my voice weak and trembling from the “accident,” “Jinying, please leave. Your father might come back at any time.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to leave you alone. If he finds out about us, so be it. Now stay where you are.”
He dashed to turn up the heat, started running a hot bath, then came back to carry me to the bathroom. As gentle as a mother with her baby, Jinying peeled off my soaked clothes and lifted me into the tub. The contact with the steaming water began to soothe my nerves and even lift my mood.
Seeing me feeling better, Jinying began to take off his clothes and shoe
s, then got into the bathtub with me.
“Why?” he asked as softly as if he was talking to a newborn, taking my hands in his.
My voice came out weak and eerie-sounding. “Why what?”
He sighed heavily. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”
“I ... I didn’t. I just ... fell, like you said.”
“Don’t lie to me please, Camilla. Please tell me. Tell me everything about you and why you are so sad.”
I stubbornly shook my head. “Jinying, please don’t make life more complicated than it is. Believe me, I fell.”
He didn’t respond but pulled me so my head rested on his chest. “Camilla, if you want to disappear, let me disappear with you.”
Some silence passed before I said, “Jinying, please leave. I’m fine.”
“I can’t. What if you do something silly again?” He said firmly. “I’ll spend the night here.”
“Jinying, please don’t ... what if your father ...”
“He won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the whole gang will spend the night at Pigalle.”
At first I was shocked to hear that, but I quickly realized that of course Lung was not going to miss the famous red-light district and the many exotic, French-speaking ladies of the Parisian night. As the Chinese saying goes, “Never leave a mountain of treasures empty-handed.”
As relief washed over me, I closed my eyes, too tired to respond. In my semiconscious state, I felt Jinying’s arms lifting me, wrapping me in a thick towel, then carrying me to the bed. In a cocoon formed by the warm blanket and the young master’s arms, I soon fell into a deep, troubled sleep... .
21
Shopping the Champs-Élysées
