Not home. A hotel.
But it felt like coming home: the recognizable terrain of Wangfii-jing, the turn onto Goldfish Lane, dominated by the familiar white and
red facade and broad doors of the Palace Hotel, the greeting from the concierge—"Ah, Mrs. Graham, welcome back"—the efficient formality of the clerk who handed her a fax from Talia, even the amiable grins of the white porcelain horses, almost life-size, that flanked the great white stairway rising to the mezzanine. She had been there only a few days, but as she walked through the lobby to the elevator, she moved with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.
Her room waited, neatly made up, exactly as she had left it the night before last, to go to Xi'an. Only two nights ago! How could so much have happened in such a short time?
And how much time is left?
A calendar lay on the desk in the window. Three more days.
Three? Only three?
Impossible. I have too much to do. I can't possibly finish in three days. How ridiculous, to plan such a short trip. I'll call Talia and tell her —
Talia. There had been a fax from her. She found it on the small table beside the door, where she had dropped it, with her briefcase and purse, when she came in.
Miranda, we've arranged for you to meet with Tang Po, the director of Nantong Woolen Mill. They're in Jiangsu Province, but he's coming to Beijing to see you. Nantong makes blankets (cotton, silk, cashmere) and they want to expand into new areas; all details about the company at the bottom of this page. He'll call you at your hotel; spend a couple of days with him to see what you come up with. Sorry to keep you in China longer than you'd planned—"
Two more days. Two more days in China.
"—but this should be worth it; it sounds like a good company. You know we're counting on you, so stick it out a little longer. Love, Talia. PS. Have you gotten the hang of chopsticks yet?"
Yes, and tonight a cleaver.
She laughed, and whirled about the room. Two extra days. Thank you, Talia. Thank you, Mr Tang. Two more days with Li. And working with Meiyun.
She telephoned Meiyun in Xi'an. "Thank you for the commission; it's very exciting. I have three designs I like."
"I loiew you would find it interesting." Meiyun's voice brought
back her silk-hung dressing room and her smile when she met Miranda's eyes in the mirror, and Miranda thought, I love her.
"Who wants the cape?" she asked.
"An actress. Not a great one, but a popular one; she is receiving the Magnolia award for best actress in a television film at the Shanghai Television Festival and wishes to look dramatic and different."
"In one of your dresses?"
"It is almost certain. She tries to be indifferent, but she is obsessed with fashion and she cannot hide it. The cape is to go with a long gold dress with thin black straps and a black satin hem, close-fitting, highly dramatic, perfect for her figure. She does wear clothes well, and it will be a pleasure to dress her if I can tolerate her self-centeredness. She comes from a poor background and is clawing her way to the top and she thinks she does not have time for pleasant behavior. It is too bad, but there it is. So. I am coming to Beijing in three days with dresses for her to try, and she will try the cape with the gold dress. Will you be there?"
"Yes, oh, how wonderful. But, do you always do this? Make deliveries?"
"Never. But I wanted to see you, and Yuan Li also. The actress—her name is Wu Yi, by the way—thinks I am coming because I am hungry for her to be a client. And that is fine; it makes her happy to think that and happy clients are the best, of course. Now tell me about your designs."
Miranda described them briefly, then said, "I have one more, my favorite, but it's very different and perhaps too difficult. I've drawn it, but—"
"Tell me." And when Miranda did, Meiyun said, "Yes, that one. It is perfect for the dress."
"But to have it made in three days . . ."
"Two days. I have arranged it, leaving a third day for them to correct any mistakes. You will fax me all your designs even though I know which one I want; still, it is good to see them all with the dress. Whichever I choose, you will see it in four days. In fact, you will see it on Wu Yi. I would like you to come with me to the fitting. Will you do that?"
"Yes, I'd like that. What day will you be here?" They talked about dates and times, and then Miranda, acting with a boldness that she would wonder at later, said, "Will you have dinner with us that night?"
"Us," echoed Meiyun. Miranda flushed, but said nothing, and after a moment, Meiyun said casually, "That would be pleasant."
When they hung up, Miranda called the concierge and gave his
messenger her drawings to be faxed to Xi'an. She turned on her bathwater, then sat for a moment, gazing through the window at the crowds walking through shadows and late-afternoon sunlight on the street below, and the yellowish-gray sky above. It might be filled with pollution, she thought, but it was also filled with possibilities. A whole world of possibilities. Beginning tonight, with Li. Being at home, with Li.
Home. I should call home, she thought. She went to the telephone, driven by an odd sense of urgency. And then, as before, she thought of the time difference and knew she could not do it. Well, then, I'll write, she thought. She had written postcards to all of them every day, but now she pulled out a stack she had bought the day before and wrote rapidly, filling the small blank squares with descriptions and anecdotes. Then to Adam and Lisa, she wrote, "Maybe I'll bring you here and we'll stay for a while; you could go to school here, and make friends you'd never meet at home, and learn about another country firsthand, instead of through books or television or movies. We could rent a house with different buildings connected by courtyards ... that would be so much fun."
She stamped the postcards and tucked them into her purse. She could have given them to the concierge, but she did not. I'll mail them myself, she thought; as soon as I get a chance.
Then, at last, she shed her business suit and stepped into the deep tub, sinking into hot water perfumed with bubbles of lotus flower. Steam rose to the ceiling, an iridescent mist that swirled over gold faucets, the green marble walls and floor, and a porcelain sculpmre of a royal lady standing in a niche beside the mb. Miranda lay back beneath mounds of tiny bubbles, gazing at the long-robed lady, breathing in lotus flowers and the elusive scent of yellow roses from a tall spray in a cinammon-colored vase beside her.
The water caressed her with the same rhythmic waves as Li's caresses as he brought them both to the crest of desire, and her back arched and she closed her eyes, feeling him slide inside her, every touch and movement recalled by the swirls of water rippling across her breasts, her throat, her thighs. She lay there, breathing deeply, her eyes closed. The only sound was the faint bursting of the tiny bubbles around her, and an odd little hum that it took her a moment to recognize as coming from inside her: a hum of desire and excitement, and contentment, as well.
You know we 're counting on you, so stick it out a little longer.
"Oh, yes, Talia," she murmured into the steamy silence. "I can do that."
For dinner she wore the blouse Meiyun had chosen for her. She had brought it with her from Xi'an, along with the blue dress and the jacket. "On your store account," Meiyun had said. And when Miranda had objected that she had no such account, Meiyun had replied, "You have, in my head and my heart. I will send a bill to your hotel and you will pay me when you can."
And now she was coming to Beijing, with a cape designed by Miranda Graham to pair with a dress designed by Ye Meiyun. It was almost dizzying, how quickly things were happening. Once, change had been something that happened to other people; now it was part of her life. And not frightening, as she would have thought; in fact, it was wonderful.
The blouse was burgundy-red silk with pearl buttons and full sleeves that fastened at the wrists with tiny gold monkeys. I hope he has an apron, Miranda thought, and turned in front of the mirror as she stepped into the skirt t
hat was part of her black suit. It should be black cashmere, she thought, or black silk: narrow and ankle-length. A little monkey embroidered below the waist, just in front of the left hipbone. Maybe swinging from a branch with leaves and fruit ... a few seed pearls for the fruit. Black suede shoes. A small velvet purse with a gold chain and a monkey for a clasp. Gold, with seed pearls.
Swiftly, she drew a sketch, and made notes. / wish I could wear it tonight.
But Li, not knowing what she was not wearing, admired what she was. In the lobby, he briefly took both her hands in his. "Beautiful. You are so beautiful. And glowing. That wonderful red..." His hands tightened, then they both pulled back, and he took from her arm Meiyun's black jacket with black embroidery. "Let me help you."
His hands curved over her shoulders as she slipped into the jacket and for a fraction of a second she leaned back against him. If I'm glowing, it isn't because of the red blouse. They walked to his car, parked under the overhang at the entrance. He 'II know that when I take it off. A shiver ran through her and, though they were not touching, Li felt it. "Are you cold? It seems like such a mild evening."
"It is. I'm not cold."
He drove into narrow Goldfish Lane, merging with the traffic. Briefly, he turned and touched her cheek. Horns blared as the car swerved slightly. "Damn. I want to hold you, but this takes all my attention."
Miranda laughed. "Shall I do it? Hold you while you—"
"No!" He grinned. "Think of the headhnes: 'American designer kills Chinese engineer and self by fondling in traffic' "
They laughed together. "Where are we?" Miranda asked.
"Beichizi Street."
"There's a stream running alongside us."
"A moat. It surrounds the Forbidden City. Eight hundred buildings, nine thousand rooms, courtyards, gardens, terraces... a city inside our city. We'll go there soon; you'll be impressed."
"Some people on the street today asked me if I was impressed with Beijing."
"And?"
"I said I was. I am. It's a wonderful city. But I think it seems even more wonderful because I'm so happy."
Li drew a breath. "You always surprise me. You're so completely open."
"Not completely."
He glanced at her. "You mean you're keeping something from me? May I know it?"
"I'm not sure. You'll think I'm not ladylike."
"What does that mean ... ladylike?"
"Repressed."
"Well, I already do not think you are repressed. At least, not recently. So what is this unladylike thing?"
"I was thinking about taking off this blouse, later on, and then you'd know it's not the reason my face is glowing."
He took the comer too sharply, and Miranda was flung against him. "I'm sorry," he said. "The picture came to me of you taking off your blouse. And of me helping you with it, the sUk in my fingers, and the silk of your skin ..."
There was a pause. "Are we really going to cook dinner?" Miranda asked.
He caressed the back of her neck. "At some time during this whole night that we have ahead of us, we will cook dinner."
She gripped her hands in her lap to contain the ripples of desire that spread through her like quicksilver, heavy and hot. This is new, she thought, as she had in Xi'an. I haven't known this before. I Uke it.
She looked through her window as they passed Beihai Park, with its huge serpentine lake, where they had had dinner their first night together. "How many miles is six kilometers?" she asked.
"Three point six. They don't teach the metric system in your schools?"
"Of course they do! They teach everything! I just never—" She fell silent, the hot desire that suffused her stabbed by sharp annoyance. "It never seemed important," she said, her voice subdued. "How do you calculate it?"
"Multiply by point six. I did not mean to criticize your schools; I know they are very fine."
"Some of them," she said honestly, annoyance gone, desire and happiness swelling again. She sat back, gazing at the city, focusing on nothing and everything. She looked at the sidewalks, flickeringly visible through streams of bicyclists, and her glance slid over scenes that were becoming familiar: groups of men squatting in circles to play chess or checkers, with other men standing above them, smoking, criticizing, gossiping; outdoor barbers bending over clients who leaned back in folding chairs, eyes blissfully shut, huge towels draped over chest and neck; men and women in dark business suits talking on cellular phones, dodging bicyclists as they crossed the street. By now, the sky was almost dark and the people had dimmed to silhouettes drifting in and out of dim lights. Miranda felt that Li's car had become a small dark capsule skimming ghostly streets to an unknown destination.
"This is my neighborhood," Li said, and as they turned the comer Miranda saw the street sign that said Xisi Bei. "And here is my house."
Li's house. An unknown destination? Maybe . . . maybe, after all, I don't belong here. I don't know. I don't know.
Suddenly gripped by panic, she sat rigidly while he parked the car off the street, beside a high wall, and came around to open her door.
She felt his swift glance at her face and wondered how she looked—fearful? reluctant? repressed?—but he thought it was something else. "If you're worried about anyone watching, I can point them out to you, about a block away. They will stay there all night, cold and disappointed, and we will have our privacy and never think of them."
He held out his hand, and Miranda stepped out beside him. "This is one of my favorite neighborhoods," he said casually. They walked to a gate in the high wall. "One of the few districts in Beijing where the old courtyard houses have been left alone. That is, left for some of us to renovate. It is much more Chinese to me than other districts that are a mongrel of modem and—"
"What?" Miranda stopped short, then laughed. "Hybrid. Isn't that what you mean? A combination, a mishmash, a tossed salad—"
''Tossed salad?"
"It's just another way of saying the same thing."
"I like it; it is far more colorful than hybrid. What is a mongrel?"
"A mutt. A dog of mixed, and usually uncertain, parentage."
"Ah. Almost as good as tossed salad."
They were inside the courtyard now, relaxed and laughing, but as Li locked the gate behind them, desire rushed back, exploding within Miranda, driving everything else out, so that, almost blindly, she turned into Li's arms, into his embrace. Their lips met, their mouths opened, their arms curved and clung until the heat inside them merged, and melted the space between their bodies. Li turned, his arm tighdy around Miranda's shoulders, and they moved in step to a door at their left. Miranda had a swift, dizzy impression of a brick house, a small dimly lit room, a deep bamboo couch with a mmbled array of silk tas-seled pillows. And then she and Li were lying on the couch, and all the longings of that endless day rose and swelled, engulfing them in heat and silence, the silk pillows like surging waves lifting them, buoying them, slippery against their glistening skin, their silken touch on Miranda's breasts and thighs like an echo of the sensual hardness of Li's hands and the insistence of his mouth that brought a cry to her lips, and brought him inside her, immersed in her, clasped by her, so tightly that once again the space between them melted, and they were one.
When they were still, they lay for a long time, wrapped together, while their breathing slowed and their skin cooled, and when their eyes opened they met in a smile. "Never has a day crawled like this one," Li murmured. "I thought of you, I pictured you and heard your voice and felt your touch but I could not touch you, I could not even go to you. I wanted and wanted and it built up inside me and I thought I would explode."
"Yes." Miranda touched his face, his eyebrows, the ridge of his nose; she traced the thin lines of his lips again and again, as if memorizing them with her fingers. She felt she could not touch him enough. "I had to sit in a meeting and talk about money and heather and tweed."
"Heather and tweed?"
"Yams. And all I wanted was to be with
you; I was thinking of you all the time. But, still.. ."
"Ah. Not quite all the time. And in between? What happened?"
"I was different. I wasn't afraid anymore."
"So you were tough?"
She laughed slightly. "For me."
"And you got what you wanted."
"I did. I think I was as surprised as they were. If they were; it was hard to tell." She paused. "Did you get what you wanted when you talked to Sheng?"
He smiled. "I am not sure parents ever get what they want when they talk to their children. But we made a beginning and I learned that he is not anxious for me to leave, in fact, he is afraid I might, afraid that I will abandon him. It is a strange fear for a man of thirty-five, but as I told you Sheng has much growing up to do.
He fell silent, then smiled ruefully at Miranda. "Why are we talking about our children when we are in bed together?" He drew her to him. "I love you. I cannot imagine a time when I did not love you. I love your face and your voice and your wonderful smile, with so much joy in it, and your very serious frown, and your hands touching me, and I feel they always have been there and always will be—"
Miranda kissed him, her hands framing his face, feeling the rapid pulse in his temple; she kissed him and their tongues met with their own silent words as their bodies shifted, stirring the silk cushions, the silken tassels brushing their skin with the shivery stroke of feathers.
She had thought their fever had been tempered, but they came together with the same fierce hunger as before, the same explosive longing they had fought all day, Miranda curving above Li and settling onto him, his hands at her waist, his mouth on her breasts; Li tracing Miranda's body with his mouth, kissing, tasting the contours and small hollows and hardness of bone beneath skin, down and down, until, raising her hips with his hands, he drank, as from a golden bowl; Miranda drawing Li into her mouth, into her throat, the softness of her tongue coiling around his hardness, her breasts crushed against his thighs, his hands in her hair, on her breasts, until, open and hungering, she slid upward along his body and they turned within the tumble of silk pillows, like swimmers arching through surging waves, and he lay on her and the molten darkness inside her drew him deep and deeper, and then exploded with light.
A Certain Smile Page 21
