After a twelve-year marathon love affair, Graham and I had decided to get married. The date was set for September 11, 2001; we'd be married in Wall Street's Trinity Church at ten in the morning. Graham and I had met in Tokyo. I was twenty-four then and completing the second of my "celestial cycles". Graham's love changed me and changed my life forever. To Chinese, twelve years mean one cycle has come to a close; twelve years now complete signify new beginnings. In my thirty-sixth year, at the close of the third of my "celestial cycles", we had chosen to join our hearts forever, ‘til death do us part.

    Chapter 1: Song of the Huangpu River

Flight

My dearest Graham, where have you gone? I cannot see your spirit; I cannot touch it. But I can feel it. Like a gentle breeze, it ruffles my long hair, scorches my temples, and then departs. I reach up and in an instant feel your warmth, my tears.

On Friday February 8, 2002, I took my seat in first class on a Boeing 747 departing from New York.

I had no idea where I wanted to go. I had no idea how to get to the next world. I was only clear about one thing: my spirit, this life that had begun thirty-seven years ago in a place called Shanghai, was heading homeward. Don't we always go home?

I had never felt quite this calm. With my eyes closed, I felt as if I were floating upon a river, a tranquil river. There was no wind, no waves to break the stillness. I became a kite, light and graceful, hovering in midair. I spread my limbs to fill the full width of the seat and floated, floated.

"Miss, would you like a beverage?" a stewardess asked warmly. A wave of my hand was my "no, thank you."

I didn't open my eyes, but continued drifting. I could feel my spirit begin to leave my body; it was as if I had become a bubble of air. Is a spirit heavy? I wondered. Wasn't it just a bit of smoke? Why is it that once the spirit has left the body, the person is empty? I saw a spirit once when I was seven. We were at my uncle's house on Huaihai Road in Shanghai. Grandma's intestinal cancer was in its final stages, eating away at the last remnants of her very being. I watched her shrink, day by day, from a healthy roundness into a gaunt rack of bones.

It was dusk one day in October. My cousin Xiaoming and I had been playing with a rubber ball in the courtyard. Suddenly a puff of bluish smoke floated forth from Grandma's window. A red light shone beneath tinges of blue-gray. I dropped the ball and stood still, my eyes following the tiny cloud. I pulled at my cousin's jacket, "Do you see that cloud of smoke?" He looked around and asked, "Where?" "Look, up there, it's floating towards the heavens!" I pointed upward. "You're lying! There's nothing there!" Xiaoming grabbed the ball I had dropped and went off to play.

I stood completely still. How could it have disappeared? I lifted my face toward the horizon. The sky had become a spectacular silver river; an enchanting, dusky mirage had risen before me. That must be heaven, I thought. But why couldn't I usually see it? They must have opened a door; but why had the door suddenly opened today?

In that split second I knew - I ran towards Grandma's room. I'll never forget that moment. Thirty years of traveling from east to west and back again hasn't erased that childhood memory of the deepening shades of that dusk. To be honest, I was afraid of Grandma, of her emaciated body, her boniness. I avoided her, all the while knowing that there was nothing to be afraid of. She loved me; but my seven-year-old eyes sought only beauty and brightness. Grandma saw my fear. It brought tears to her eyes. Beneath the covers, she would weep. I could do nothing but run like the wind; but I loved her I loved her oh how I loved her. I'd wear the clothes she'd made for me, admiring each stitch, every fold in a silent show of love and affection.

When I pushed open the door that day, Grandma looked as serene as an angel. As the sunset, she had slipped softly from this world, not a wrinkle of pain remained on her face. The lines of pain once etched on her face had softened and in their place was sunshine. I walked lightly, fearlessly towards her. I stood before her bed and observed her. "Grandma". No answer. The little bed before me was growing cold with Grandma's body. I knew than that Grandma was dead.

By the time the entire family had surrounded the bed, wailing in grief, I had managed to cloister myself off in a darkened corner. Death didn't seem that bad to me; at least not for Grandma. When my grief-stricken mother noticed me standing in the corner without the slightest touch of sadness on my face, she walked towards me and upon reaching me, gave me a resounding slap. "You useless kid. Grandma wasted herself on you. Do you realize how much she loved you? Now she's gone and she's never coming back…" My mother was too choked with tears to go on.

My wails joined the anguished chorus. I had been slapped into crying, but now it was my mother's last, unfinished sentence that had scorched my childish soul. Grandma wasn't coming back. The tears began to fall; the real sadness set in. I was crying for Grandma now. When someone dies, they're gone. That's it. It seemed as if Grandma, asleep, angelic, was suddenly reduced to ashes that wafted in a shower of sparks toward a place she had never before visited.

One day after Grandma died, I suddenly recalled playing ball with Xiaoming and noticing that puff of smoke. I described that moment in great detail to my parents and relatives. No one believed me - they took it as just another one of my wild fantasies. I looked around nervously for Xiaoming in hopes that he would remember and back me up. Who would have guessed that his testimony would encourage them even more to call me a dreamer, a girl full of strange thoughts and senseless words. I couldn't string an argument together, but was reduced instead to a few fumbled words, tears, and an angry exit. "I saw it! That wisp of smoke wafted from Grandma's room…"

As I grew older, I came to believe in spirits. I believe that that wisp of smoke I saw leaving Grandma's room was her spirit bidding us farewell. I believe that certain spirits have eyes, demonic eyes, eyes that chase life towards the precipice of death.

Death completes love. All those who have loved deeply are traveling a path towards death, towards the departure of the spirit, towards the end of a dream. Both life and love, like a fallen leaf, may come to a premature end. How many lovers live eternally in death? How many long for each other from a distance, or perish at the very pinnacle of happiness? It's true. When a person dies, the spirit travels to another world. The person is dead.

My dearest Graham, where have you gone? I cannot see your spirit; I cannot touch it. But I can feel it. Like a gentle breeze, it ruffles my long hair, scorches my temples, and then departs. I reach up and in an instant feel your warmth, my tears.

"Miss, it's time for lunch. Would you like steak or lobster?" Again, the flight attendant was bending over me, speaking sweetly in my ear. I opened my eyes and sat up; the flight attendant put the tray down for me. I asked for the lobster and a small bottle of red wine.

A lonely journey, a heartbroken woman, a bottle of blood red wine fills a desolate spirit.

"How's the lobster?" the man sitting next to me asks, as he digs in to his steak with relish.

"It's flavorless," I answered, quite honestly.

He paid little attention to my answer and instead continued, "Let me introduce myself. I'm John - here's my business card. He handed the card to me with polite ceremony.

I took a quick look at the card -- a Vice-President in IBM's New York office - and put it in my bag.

"Hi John. I'm sorry. I don't have a business card, or an identity of any sort. I'm just a traveler," I said blandly.

I looked out the window at the clouds, holding my chin in the palm of my left hand, thinking. I'm nothing, nothing - a Chinese bride hurled by a merciless fate from the pinnacle of happiness towards destruction on the morning of September 11, last year. Flames took half of her, destroying her eternal Wall Street love…

"What are you thinking about, traveler?" John was looking at me.

"I was thinking how wonderful it would be if this plane were blown out of the sky. The plane would explode. The people would die. And my spirit could go home."

The tears came in a torrent. I could say no more, turned away and cried gently, in silence.

Someone handed me a soft tissue. Someone patted me on the shoulder. I held back the tears and tried to get a hold of myself.

John returned to my side with a cup of hot tea. I took it and thanked him.

The air was completely still, and only then did I notice that in addition to two white-haired couples in the last row, the first class cabin was empty except for us.

"So you're going to Shanghai on business, John?" I was trying to warm myself up a bit and so began sizing up this man sitting to my side.

I was greeted by his profile, a head of brown hair, sharp features, a strong, rugged look. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be in great pain. When he realized I was talking, he sat up and turned towards me. It was when our eyes met that I noticed the redness in his.

Some tiny corner of my heart was instantly touched by this man. Could he too be suffering? Then I noticed the ring on his pinkie and turned away. American men are all Hollywood actors. They're romantic; they're humorous. None of that matters though. When they travel on business, they're looking for action. Did you ever notice how as soon as they get out the door they release their ring fingers from those wedding rings, move them to their pinkies, and loosen up their hearts?

Like a cat out on the prowl in the dark of night, their eyes light up and they're single again. I remember being invited to the second wedding of my friend Sheng Yanzi in Paris. Yanzi, once a flirtatious college student, had shocked us all and married a black African anthropologist who had left the Congo to resettle in Paris. On that flight from Japan, a middle-aged American man sitting next to me had taken a liking to me and in a split second, with great skill and slight of hand, had managed to move his wedding ring from his ring finger to his pinkie. I teased him, pointing at his finger, "Marriage is depressing, isn't it? It's great to get out and travel. You can breathe that fresh, single air. You should travel more!"

He didn't seem bothered by my comments at all. Instead he boldly retorted: "If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't have realized the depth of my depression. So my heart said to my hand, it's time for a change, starting from now."

He gave me a genuine look and I fell silent. It's hard to resist the romantic side of an American man. My only recourse was to play dumb for the rest of the flight.

John came out of his dreamy stupor and turned towards me: "I'm not on business. I had to get away from New York. I have a month's vacation and a Chinese friend of mine suggested that I spend some time in Shanghai soaking up Chinese New Year charm, listening to the thunder of firecrackers. So I thought, why not? And here I am."

For the first time, I got a good look at his face. I saw success, experience, and taste. If people were part of the landscape, this man would have been a wide-open lake, a body of water that absorbed the wind, the rain, the severity of the seasons, the heaviness of existence. Ripples of blue, a calm wind, still waves, flowing constantly, unhurried, beneath the sun, the moon, and the stars.

"Ah, Chinese New Year, firecrackers, it's been so long," I said. I started to shuffle my memories. How many years had it been since I had celebrated the New Year at home? The last time was…

I remembered. It was fifteen years ago. I was twenty-two then and a runaway bride. With my suitcase in tow and in quite a panic, I had stepped aboard the Veritus cruise ship docked at Shanghai's Gongping Road pier and soon to be bound for Yokohama. I remember that in order to ensure that I successfully escaped the very powerful family of my then husband, the director of the Sino-Japan Cruise Company, Hu Linsheng and his friend, the Japanese consul in Shanghai, Kojima Ishiro, escorted me, one on each side, onto the ship.

The mournful cello of the "Zigeunerweisen" played over the ship's loudspeaker as we pulled slowly away from the dock. I stood on deck and cried myself a river. I was frightened, not knowing where this ship or my fate would take me. Looking out over the endless, thrashing waves, for a moment I contemplated death. The sea breeze rustled my hair and dried my tears. In the darkness, my heart lingered between life and death, a pair of black eyes lit up, then darkened. And then I heard it, the sound of firecrackers. The noise grew louder and I found myself looking toward the sound. From the shore, from large and small boats alike, rose all the colors of the rainbow. The sky filled with shooting stars and celebration. I came back to my senses then and realized it was New Year's Eve. Tears filled my eyes again as I thought of my mother, alone. In that moment, in the bright lights and in my love for my mother, I saw hope. I'm young, beautiful, smart. I'm not going to bow before fate. Make a wish, I said to myself. A new year is arriving, a new journey has begun. Bid farewell to the past. Life will begin again in Japan…

Time flies, I said to John. Once you've grown up, it's hard to get back that feeling of anticipation you once felt as a child waiting for the New Year to begin. For foreigners though, the Chinese New Year was always a fun experience. I even mentioned to John that this was not the first time I had heard an American say he was looking to escape New York. New York, New York - where strange events and all sorts of disasters could fall from the sky at any moment and noone knows who they would befall.

John sat silently for a few minutes, then said, "Mmm, the first person to teach you to stand on your own is your mother, the second is disaster. Mothers teach us to physically stand up; disaster teaches us to emotionally stand tall."

When I heard him say this, for a split second I was moved, but then those feelings changed. Who are you to be talking about all these big ethical ideas? When has disaster rained down upon you? Sure, you can be nonchalant, but do you have any idea what kind of disaster this Chinese woman sitting next to you has experienced? She spent the best years of her life, twelve years, waiting for her American, the love of her life, a perfect Wall Street man. Do you have any idea how those twelve years passed? She had finally made it. She could finally be happy, even ecstatic, so ecstatic that it felt like her heart would jump from her throat! The wedding would take place at ten in the morning on September 11, 2001 in Wall Street's Trinity Church. Do you know why they had chosen this day, this moment for this magical occasion? It was to be the most important moment of our lives; it was our memorial. Did you know that to a Chinese, twelve years is one complete cycle? I fell in love with Graham when I was twenty-four, and then when I was thirty-six, in my "celestial" year…it's like a dream, everything is like a dream…

You wouldn't believe how beautiful she looked that day dressed in her white Chanel wedding gown and veil. She wasn't the pale, ugly creature sitting next to you now. She literally shone, and when her groom saw that light in her eyes, he warmly called her is "Wall Street bride". They climbed into a white Rolls Royce and headed towards the church. A moment of passion, a few kisses, and before they knew it, the bride's red lipstick had stained the groom's starched white bow tie. Plans changed in a second. The groom asked the driver to take the bride to the church first, while he ran to his office on the one hundred second floor of the World Trade Center to retrieve another clean white bow tie. Who knew…

I couldn't control myself. I bent over, completely still, my hands covering my face, and cried silently. My head felt as if it would explode. I felt faint, the ground was spinning; something inside was shaking my heart viciously.

A flight attendant came by and knelt by my side. She asked if I was all right. I heard John reply, "She's terribly sad right now. I don't think she's sick. Why don't you let me see if I can console her." The flight attendant poured me a glass of orange juice and brought a warm towel, said a few words of comfort, then left.

I could feel John beside me. The warmth of his hand was constantly on my back, "Be strong, kid. Everyone comes from some sort of misery. You have to face it. Maybe you should rest for a bit."

I calmed myself and he helped me sit up; then he put my chair in the reclining position, had me drink some juice, reminded me to wipe my face, then told me to sleep for a while.

I was a child again. Actually, I was even weaker than a child. I had always been a small bird reliant on others. And now my other was gone and I had no one to lean on. This little bird's wings had lost the strength to fly.

I fell into a deep sleep. The airplane floated steadily in midair. I dreamed of a small river in my hometown. A light wind wafted above the grassland. The leaves of the trees rustled, the rolling hills were covered with the greenness of mulberry fields. A flock of migrating birds, startled, flew upward from the grassland, drifting toward the forest.