Desire wakes a sleeping ghost

I cried. I sobbed loudly. I could hear heaven laughing above. The earth was spinning. The ruler of heaven must be irrigating again. For the first time, I knew a love between a man and a woman that could weather both life and death.

Where am I? What am I doing lying here? All sorts of noises are filtering in from outside. The room is quiet and neat, the furniture made of traditional red wood and the decorations elegant. Could this be Grandma's home on Huaihai Road?

I sat up suddenly, rubbed my puffy eyes and looked around me. I was alone. I looked myself over - I was still wearing the same shirt and jeans. What had happened? I got up and ran over to the window, pulled open the drapes and stuck my head out. The road below was full of ants climbing forward. In one direction was the " Pearl of the East" Tower and the Huangpu River - and below a sea of yellow skin and black heads.

It all came back to me - isn't this the Peace Hotel in Shanghai? What was his name…the American, the American guy I met on the plane…didn't I drop him here? Where is he? My watch read 12 noon Beijing time. I walked back to the edge of the bed and lay down, looking up toward the ceiling, trying to recover all that happened last night. It was all like a dream, piece by piece, parts quite clear and others very fuzzy. The only truly clear memory was a desolate snapshot of my mother at night. I saw my mother last night. I saw her beneath the light from the window. I began to cry. I wanted to run to her, but something stopped me. A huge boulder stood between us and I couldn't move it; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't move it. Then I fainted…

Once my mother's image had risen before my eyes, I couldn't erase it. I jumped off the bed, picked up my bag and made my way out of the room. Quick, quick, I have to get home. I have to get home to see my mother. As I was closing the hotel room door, I noticed the large suitcase in the closet. It must belong to that American, I thought to myself.

There is nothing more essential to life on earth than a mother. No language can quite express her importance or the depth of her emotions. "Ma, I'm home, I've come home…" It's so hard to express how much you miss her. Life seems no more than a dream. How many hearts have been broken; how many ghosts people our dreams.

Suddenly I remembered the lines, "She who speaks of the heart will be granted three springtimes of sunshine". I threw myself into my mother's arms, sobbing. Tears were streaming down my mother's face as well. In May of just last year, we had been reunited at Kennedy International Airport in New York. We were both so ecstatic to be together again. Graham, who had been standing off to one side, came over and gave my tiny mother a great big hug. She was so happy, so very, very happy.

Mothers' Day arrived a few days later and the three of us decided to go to church. At the entrance were two piles of carnations - a pile of red and another pile of white. If your mother were still alive, you were to wear a red carnation. If your mother had passed away, you should wear a white carnation in memory.

I proudly picked up a red carnation and looked towards my mother with a smile; I watched her eyes well with tears as she reached for a white flower. She was thinking of my grandma, her mother. A flash of pain shot through my heart. I wanted to comfort her, then I noticed Graham also wearing a white carnation. I was overcome with grief and could only take one in my left arm the wrap my right arm around the other and proceed down the aisle toward the altar. The topic of the service that day was "Love for my Mother" and part of the program asked for congregants to take the pulpit and speak of their love for their mothers. Anyone could go up. It was a rare occasion for my mother and me to be together on Mothers' Day. There was so much I wanted to say to her. Just as I had decided on a few sentences and was preparing to stand up and head for the front, Graham stood up and walked toward the pulpit. He cleared his throat, then in a deep voice, began, "I never met my mother. All I have of her are a few yellowed photographs. But today is special, because for the first time in my life, I know what if feels like to have a mother - my fiancée Bei La's mother has come to New York from Shanghai. Just in the span of a few days, I've come to understand what a mother's love means. I want to thank her. I want to thank my Chinese mother."

He stopped then, reached into his pocket and pulled out a red carnation. Once he had replaced the white carnation with a red flower, he continued, "From this day forward, I'll wear a red carnation as my fiancée does. Mothers Day only comes around once a year, but regardless, I wish our mother happiness always. I'd like to read a poem in Chinese for her:

 

Thread in the hands of a kind-hearted mother

makes clothes for her wayward boy;

Carefully she sows and thoroughly she mends,

dreading the delays that will keep him from home.

Who says the inch of grass in his heart

is gratitude enough for three months of spring sunshine?

When Graham finished, he then read the English translation. The audience burst into applause and my eyes filled with tears of happiness. Each person looked lovingly at her mother, while the mothers in the room blushed like little girls. As soon as Graham made it back to his seat, my mother grabbed his hand and said, "My greatest regret in life is that I never had a son. Now that I have you, I can die happy." Immediately she began to cry. Graham and I looked at each other and smiled. At the end of the service, many of the congregants came over to greet my mother. Several Chinese-Americans even complimented her on her luck at finding such a good American son-in-law. "So lucky, so lucky!" they chanted.

The past was right there before my eyes, as if it had just happened yesterday. Who knew that in four months on a sunny day in New York, buildings would collapse and people would perish. The calamities of this world in an instant bring shock and indignation, and to the families of the victims, an agony that time cannot erase. These are all human creations; they were our flesh and blood.

"You've suffered, child. If only I could have died instead of Graham!" My mother spoke as tears streamed down her face.

"Ma, don't say that. When a person dies, they simply travel to another world. The spirit doesn't die. Everyone suffers during life so that life after death can be carefree. We shouldn't be miserable, really, Ma. Wipe your tears and go wash your face," I said quietly, with a hint of a smile on my face.

My rather detached spirit hid behind another of life's smiles. I quickly changed the topic of conversation, "Ma, is there anything to eat? I'm starving." Only then did I remember that the last time I had eaten was on that boat on the river with that American guy. I hadn't eaten in sixteen or seventeen hours.

"OK, I'll make something for you right now," my mother turned and headed off toward the kitchen.

Jetlag had begun to set in and after a shower to wash away the grime from the trip, I soon fell asleep on my mother's bed. This was the first time in months that I had slept so sweetly; curled up beneath my mother's sun-baked comforter, the carefree little girl of all those years ago finally returned home. A contented smile filled my face. Mother had prepared several dishes and couldn't keep from waking me. The table was covered with traditional Ningbo dishes: Drunken Crab, Drunken Chicken, fried shrimp, snails, steamed eggs and yellow fish soup with pickled vegetable filled the air with their fragrance. Each dish was full of my mother's love.

That New Year's Eve, my mother and I were surrounded by friends. We ate and drank, and watched the New Year's special on television. Nobody mentioned Graham or my September 11 wedding. It was a fun evening. I drank bottle after bottle of Tsing-tao beer. Why not? I had already told myself, enough of the tears, no more sniveling. When people remembered me, I wanted them to remember a happy me, the me full of laughter. It would be easier this way.

At around 10 that night, a car horn began to sound from below, but I didn't pay much attention. My cousin screamed from the window, "What's wrong with you, beeping the horn like a crazy person?"

"It's a foreigner, a foreigner, cousin. Come on over and scream at him in English, crazy…" my cousin yelled in my direction with a look of disdain on his face.

I went to the window. At that same moment, two piercing eyes looked up at me. I didn't know what to do. "God, it's that American again. What am I going to do?" I said to myself.

"I'm going downstairs for a minute. He's here to see me." I grabbed a jacket and headed downstairs.

"Not bad, John. How did you manage to find me?" I said upon reaching him.

"Yesterday at noon when I returned to the hotel with food for you, you had already disappeared. And I've been searching for you ever since. I was sure I could find you. You see, I've finally found you, right?" His voice betrayed his excitement.

"Your car?" I was a bit confused. He had just arrived; how could he have a car?

"I stole it. Do you dare take a ride in a stolen car?" he asked.

"There's not much that I won't do." I took the driver's seat.

"Where to? I don't know Shanghai very well, but I gather I know it better than you, so why don't you let me drive?" He took the passenger seat.

"I'll leave it up to you. Anywhere is fine. I heard that fireworks can't be set off on the Bund or in the city. Why don't we head for the outskirts of Shanghai," he said as he fastened his seatbelt.

"Hey John, if you really stole this car and there's a kidnapped person in the trunk - now that would be fun. So where'd you rent the car?" I started it up. This was a brand-new Mercedes - where could he have gotten it? There couldn't be more than a handful of these cars in Shanghai.

"It belongs to the head of our Shanghai office." He stopped for a minute, then continued, "You disappeared so suddenly yesterday. I hadn't been gone for more than ten minutes. When I got back, you were gone. You have no idea how awful I felt! What is wrong with me?" He was unable to hide his pain.

I stayed quiet, staring straight ahead, and drove towards a place called Jiangwan. We passed familiar place after familiar place, but none of them brought forth particular memories.

The "pa pa pa" sound of fireworks was going off around us; the closer we got to the outskirts of the city, the louder the explosions grew.

"John, my eardrums are just about to explode."

"A wild city and a wild new year." He looked energized and with one arm balancing on the car window, he peered outside.

I drove faster. I wanted to escape as quickly as possible. Beneath the bright lights of the fireworks, my impatience took on another meaning. The city had changed completely' the people were different. But the fireworks are still the same, a custom passed down from generation to generation. Memories began to surface with each sparkle, with every bang.

I couldn't take it anymore. I refused the encroaching sadness. I forced the memories back to their hiding place. I followed Siping Road towards Baoshan. The wild explosions faded slowly into the background of another New Years Eve.

"It's almost midnight. Let's stop for a minute and make a wish," John suggested. I took a quick look around. We were surrounded by fields of darkness. Within a short span of time, we were already in the countryside. I pulled over to the side of the road.

"Why don't we get out and walk a bit," said John.

"Be careful of the dogs - they bite." I still remember once when I was a child, another kid was bitten by an army dog beneath the cover of night. He was dead in two days.

I checked my watch: three minutes to midnight. I turned towards him. Our eyes met. For a moment there was nothing but silence. "Let's make love and welcome in the New Year," I said dryly.

He seemed thrilled to say the least. We climbed into the back seat and fell into each other's arms. He kissed me wildly. "I love you. I fell in love with you on the plane…"

His lips explored my body, like those of a child in search of his mother's milk. I closed my eyes and let him have his way. He held me tightly. I was wet all over; heat flowed throughout my body. He was trembling and amidst our heavy breathing he finally entered me. God, my Graham has returned, my love has returned. I sighed, again and again and wrapped myself like a snake around his strong male body. Oh, my love, you've come back. I've been waiting for you - where have you been? You're in heaven; I'm here on earth, so full of love for you. The tears come like rain, oh to be together again. I've missed you. I've waited for so long. I held him tightly as we moved in crazy tandem. I lost myself in his kisses, engulfed in his love; like a sailboat erect in the wind, we floated, foamy waves crashing around us, surrounded by billowing blueness…

My love, why is it that we always celebrate holidays in this way? Do you still remember that snowy evening that marked the end of one century and the beginning of another? A desolate patch of road in upstate New York, our gray Jeep stopped by the side of the road, not a person to be found, we had left the hubbub far behind us. There was only heaven and earth then. Snowflakes filled the sky as we danced upon a silvery-white blanket of snow. We kissed tiny snowballs back and forth until they melted. We chased each other and rolled around in the snow in ecstasy. Two tiny sparks beneath the moon and the stars ignited a ball of fire; that lovers' fire illuminated the moment when the old century said goodbye and made way for the new. We made a century's worth of love for the entire world to see. We needed each other so much. Time after time, on the snow-covered ground and in our gray chariot, we made love, whispering softly like butterflies, crying out as monkeys do. We let go, let completely go; our voices, so full of lust and desire, rose over the church bells in the distance ringing in the new century. We welcomed the new century in our own way, so full of love…

"Graham, Graham, I can't lose you. Take me with you. I love you." I had lost myself in this dream and suddenly, unconsciously called out. I kissed him, touched him, caressing his face with my hands as my body moved in rhythm with his.

"I'm sorry. I'm not Graham, I'm John." His dreamlike words fought their way to the surface, a tiny bit sad, even a bit evasive, as if they had floated forth from another century. I felt as if I had been struck by a massive storm and was being carried back to reality from the very recesses of my soul. Me, the traveler, and this man named John, in a black Mercedes.

My heart was at battle with my body. "No, you're Graham, Graham, Graham," I chanted, a bit more quietly.

"No, I'm not. I'm me, John, John, John!" His voice grew louder, drowning my whispers.

"Graham, Graham, you're Graham." My voice was fading, floating back and forth between warmth and cold.

"No, no, no. I'm John, John, John," like a furious animal, he cried out in anguish. He grabbed me wildly, ravaged me, as if he wanted to brand his name upon each inch of my body with his kisses and his touch, hoping against hope that the high point of our lovemaking, our shared orgasm would take control of my spirit, that his breathing, his fragrance, his bodily fluids would fill every recess of my body. Between animal and human, wild and soft, death and passion, we found completion, explosive and sweet. Clouds floated above as we wafted through the fog. Like the parched yellow earth tasting its first gulp of spring rain, with an ease I hadn't experienced in ages I grabbed on to the sail of life.

I cried. I sobbed loudly. I could hear heaven laughing above. The earth was spinning. The ruler of heaven must be irrigating again. For the first time, I recognized the finality of Graham's love in the arms of another man.

In the dark of night, in a deserted field, a cultured modern-day man cried out from within the body of a foreign woman. But he was just a substitute, a substitute for a ghost.

Afterward, for a moment I felt wronged. As I traveled back from the edge of a dream, tears flowed from my eyes and soaked my face. When I could no longer see clearly, I had bid Graham farewell.

I came to, but didn't open my eyes. The shock of having felt Graham in the flesh during lovemaking was still with me. The feeling of skin upon skin in my dream was even more realistic than reality itself. I wanted that feeling back. I wanted to be one with him again, to enter the labyrinth of the flesh, to fall into the hell of my inner self. There is no life or death in that place. There bloody sores transform into red rosebuds and the air is full of the fragrance of poppies. There I felt as if heroin was shooting through my veins.

"John, I'm sorry about a minute ago. Come here," I said dreamily, as I lie there.

He was sitting to one side like a deflated beach ball. I couldn't tell if he was sad or just in deep thought. At that moment, I felt so sorry. The natural warm fragrance of a woman drunk with desire emanated from me like the scent of poppies.

"John, I'm sorry, so sorry." I slipped into his embrace, my feverish face rested against his cheek. He's been so good to me. I may not love him, but I needn't damage his self-respect.

John wrapped me in the strength of his arms and covered my lips with his. "God knows how much I love you. You're like a riddle. You've stolen my heart. I know you're still suffering the pain of losing the person dearest to you. I understand. How could I not feel your pain? But you have to be able to find brilliance in the ruins. I want to use all the love that I have to give you a new life.

Like a tiny, injured bird, I leaned against him, and on this Chinese New Year's Eve, as fireworks exploded in the distance, I told this American stories from my childhood and my teenage years. All those warm memories from a far-off past, memories I thought I had left behind long ago, suddenly came so clearly to me, as if they had just happened yesterday.

We stayed like this for what seemed like forever. That black Mercedes remained parked on a country road in Baoshan all night. Like Graham had once done, John entered my body time and time again. Over and over we came together. Only in this way could I bring Graham back, to hold him forever in a moment. But John could only be John. I didn't love him - or I could never love him as I had loved Graham.

When I reached home early the next morning, the first day of the New Year, I was exhausted. I felt as if I were walking on air. Like a cloud, I floated downward toward my mother's resting body. I watched Mother as she slept, then quietly spoke, "Happy New Year!"

"A Wanderer's Song" (Youzi yin), Meng Jiao, 751-814AD, Tang Dynasty poet