Dream of the Blue Room Page 5

  “Have there been other girls for you?” she asked, picking up the pine straw I had begun to braid and dragging the tip of it along my skin, slowly, from navel to sternum.

  “No. For you?”

  “There was a girl at camp. We write letters. Her name is Celine.”

  “What about boys?”

  “None,” she said. “You?”

  “A few.”

  “I could have guessed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For me it’s only girls.” She had her hand on my hip and was looking in my eyes, so serious. I felt strange lying there topless, having a serious conversation. Her bathing suit bottom had green leaves on a black background. There was an imprint of grass on her thigh. “You, on the other hand, aren’t sure what to make of anything,” she said.

  “Do I have to be sure?”

  “It would just be easier if you knew.”

  “Easier for whom?”

  She didn’t answer. She was kissing me. And I was thinking that this was easy. This was how it was supposed to be. She kissed me so softly, her hand lightly touching my breast, and when she came closer I could feel her hair brushing against my shoulders. Her hair was long and soft and it got in my eyes when she kissed me, strands of it fell into my mouth. She was warm all over. She laid me back, put her mouth to my neck and then she was kissing me there, then my collarbone, my belly. I could feel her fingers so close, the pressure of her hand against me, an opening up, a gentleness I’d not known before. She took her hand away and lay on top of me, pressing her thigh gently between my legs. The rhythm came easily, I felt myself rocking against her. She was speaking softly into my ear, not a whisper but a sound so low it was almost not sound at all, things no boy had ever said to me. There was no fear in this, no shame, not the ugliness her father made us feel that other time, years ago. I felt the warmth pressing out of me, the deep, final push, the letting go. And after that the pulsing, and the softness of Amanda Ruth motionless on top of me, her breathing as heavy as my own, her heart so fast I could not count it, could not number the beats of it, though I wanted to assign a number or a name to the thing that we had done, wanted to add it up and mark it down.

  All summer we lived like that. Gradually we ceased to fear her father, making love in the secluded shade beside the pond or in the boathouse. She insisted on doing it in the barbecue room where we had spent one long terrified afternoon, and in that room she was more passionate than anywhere else, as if by her boldness she could erase history, undo the thing that had been done.

  By midsummer, it was as if Mr. Lee had disappeared. He no longer came to the river on Friday evenings. He had fired two of his employees at the print shop and had to work weekends. Mrs. Lee stayed in her room until late afternoon, when we made burgers or shrimp on the grill, thick hush puppies fried to a golden brown, crunchy and slightly sweet, drizzled with lemon juice. We ate on the deck behind the house in the good light of summer, listening to the slow wash of the river, the bark of dogs in the distance, the voices of mothers calling children home to supper. We drank lemonade over crushed ice, and Mrs. Lee seemed happy to have us there.

  “It’s so much better with just us girls,” she’d say, and then act as if she felt guilty for having said it. Sometimes I would catch on her a sweet tangy whiff of alcohol, and once we found three wine coolers hidden beneath a paper sack in the pantry. “Not that I don’t love your father,” she’d say to Amanda Ruth. “It’s just more relaxed this way.”

  The week before Amanda Ruth left for college, we had the place to ourselves. It rained for six days straight. We played house in the near-to-flooding boathouse that rocked on its spindly stilts, only venturing up to the cabin for food and showers. Nights during the rains we thought it might wash away. The river had risen dramatically, flooding several of the low-lying houses. It stopped within inches of the floorboards of the boathouse.

  On our last night, we sat at the end of the pier with our legs hanging over, submerged to our calves. The river was cold from the rain, murky from mud and silt that had floated downstream. Although the rain had stopped the grayness had not lifted; it would hang on for a couple of days, that stultifying softness that seems appropriate only for sleeping. We’d done our share of that, and now my whole body felt heavy, my brain soggy, my senses blurred.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Amanda Ruth said.

  “What kind?”

  “A trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “The University of Montevallo has an exchange program with China, a sister city called Yibin on the upper reaches of the Yangtze. I’m going next summer. I want you to come with me.”

  “That would cost a fortune.”

  “I’ve done the calculations. If we both work parttime and take out student loans, we can do it.”

  “It’s the other side of the world. We don’t speak Chinese.”

  She laughed. “You can get a language partner at Hunter, and I’ll get one at Montevallo. Just watch. By May I’m going to win you over.” I didn’t tell her that going to China sounded about as plausible as going to the moon.

  Amanda Ruth became serious. “What about us?” she asked. “Are we going to see other people?”

  The question struck me as odd, forced me to think about us in a way I had not before. She was my best friend, the person I trusted most, the person I most desired to spend time with. But I had never thought of our relationship as one that could last in the way boyfriends and girlfriends could last, something that could be permanent. I assumed I would go away to college, have boyfriends, fall in love in the proper manner. The men I met in New York would be different from the clumsy and brutish boys I had known thus far; they would be sensitive and intelligent, they would have a softness to them, they would know how to please me physically. I didn’t think of myself as a girl who liked other girls. I loved Amanda Ruth; that was all.

  Several minutes passed. A bullfrog called from across the river, its deep, awkward croak echoing in the stillness. The moon was low and full, the trees cast their shadows onto the river. Amanda Ruth moved slightly away from me on the pier, so that our thighs no longer touched. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “I’ve hardly thought of anything else.”

  “What about dating?” I said. “Don’t you think we should date in college?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “This is different.”

  “How?”

  I couldn’t look her in the eyes, couldn’t think of any answer that wouldn’t sound all wrong. Amanda Ruth was crying. “I get it,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to get.” I put my arm around her shoulders. She resisted, but only for a minute. “We’re best friends,” I said. “We’ve had a whole summer together. Isn’t that enough?”

  That night the rain returned, heavier now, as if the sky was emptying itself of every last drop of water. We brought fresh sheets down from the cabin and curled up on the old mattress in the boathouse. I felt the humid weight of the air bearing down on us as we lay there, holding on like sisters or cousins, listening to the deluge, awed by the lightning that flashed across the darkened sky. At some point I drifted off to sleep and dreamt that we were moving, swirling down the river in our own muddy version of the flying house in The Wizard of Oz. When I woke I realized that the little boathouse was shaking.

  “Wake up,” I whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “I think we should go up to the house.”

  I looked out the window and saw logs rushing past, big limbs ripped from trees, the white flash of a lawn chair, a mattress with its silver coils exposed.

  “We’re probably under a tornado watch,” I said, reaching for the radio, but Amanda Ruth pulled me to her. She kissed my neck, slid her hand underneath my shirt. She rolled me onto my back and lay on top of me. Her hair covered my face. Thunder pounded the roof, the power of it reverberating
in the flimsy walls. I listened for the shrill whistle of a distant locomotive. Growing up on the Gulf Coast, it was the sound I feared most. I knew how a tornado could fool you, how it sounded like a train but was really a dark funnel hurtling unchecked across the land. There were stories of bizarre deaths and miraculous survivals, such as a woman who was lifted from her bed while she slept, the sheets stripped from beneath her, before the tornado returned her to the mattress, unharmed. Small fishing boats were found miles from the owners’ houses, suspended in the air after the storm, the bow driven through the trunk of a massive oak tree. A baby was discovered alive in a bed of pine straw three days after a tornado snatched him from his mother’s arms.

  Amanda Ruth shook her hair so that it tickled my face. She held my wrists down with her hands. “I’ll visit you at Christmas,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see them light the tree at Rockefeller Center.”

  “And we’ll go ice skating in Central Park, and walk down Fifth Avenue wearing big hats.”

  “And buy smelly cheese at Zabar’s?”

  “Of course. And see a Broadway show.”

  We kissed to seal the pact.

  SEVEN

  By late afternoon the river is deep yellow, and the air smells of something decayed. For miles the riverbank has been deserted, just bamboo huts and groves of orange trees. The sun is already low in the sky when Nanjing flares up ahead, a city of gigantic candles, dozens of refinery towers breathing flames into the dusky light. It smells as if the whole city is burning. The voice on the loudspeaker announces our arrival: “We are approaching beautiful Nanjing. Please find your leader for exciting tourism promenade into famous city of industry and culture.”

  Slowly, people begin emerging on deck. Their pale, bloated faces show signs of an afternoon of drink, sleep, and Bingo. There is a great deal of blinking and yawning as the passengers adjust to the gloomy light of the rain-soaked afternoon. Elvis Paris appears at our side, green flag in one hand, clipboard in the other. “Nanjing is number one beautiful city of China!” he says, pointing to an imposing row of towers rising on the hill. “Nanjing makes all modern things for the good of the people. Petroleum, lead, zinc, iron.”

  We pass under a huge, monstrously ugly bridge, which is lined with clusters of egg-shaped lanterns and supported by four concrete towers. The Voice calls out the landmark: “Yangtze First Bridge, amazing feat of Chinese engineering and work ethic of the people.” A huge red banner hangs from the bridge, the characters written large in white. All of the guides, including Elvis Paris, point to the sign in unison, as if on cue, and The Voice translates: “Love the Four Modernizations. Work Hard for the People.”

  “What are the Four Modernizations?” Dave asks.

  “Every Chinese child knows the Four Modernizations!” Elvis Paris says proudly. “Industry, Agriculture, Defense, Science.”

  Elvis Paris must have seen the bridge dozens of times in his endless travels along this familiar route; nonetheless, he gazes up in undisguised awe. “This bridge is true symbol of modern China. Twenty thousand feet long. This bridge is very great, but the Three Gorges Dam will be greater.”

  We find Graham, then wait for Stacy, who arrives several minutes after our appointed meeting time, wearing a blue denim minidress and loafers. “We almost left you,” Dave says, teasing.

  “You wouldn’t have.” She’s looking at him the way I’ve seen so many women look at him over the years—that mixture of attraction and curiosity, amusement and, perhaps, hope. Dave’s not the kind of guy you notice immediately. His handsomeness is of a more subtle quality. I can’t count the times I’ve been sitting with him in a restaurant, halfway through the meal, when one woman, then another, and another, glances over and sees him. I know it’s happening because something crosses their faces—something quick and instinctual—before they look away. Then they’ll keep glancing back, trying not to be obvious, perhaps hoping to catch his eye. He’s not the kind of man who causes a stir when he walks into a room. Instead, women notice his presence slowly, like a vapor or a faint scent, like the music in the background that you don’t even know is there until a single odd note rises above the ambient noise. I’ve tried to analyze this quality in him, tried to figure out exactly what it is about the composition of his face, the measured gestures of his hands, that draws women slowly and inevitably toward him. Twelve years, and I’ve yet to pinpoint it. Even as I love him for his mystery, his ability to keep me guessing year after year after year, I know that I’ve lost any such mystery for him.

  We hang back until the other passengers have departed, then make our way over the slippery gangplank. Graham leads us up a muddy stairway, then through a group of rumpled soldiers halfheartedly stacking sandbags. We pass beneath a canopy of sycamores, fragrant in the rain, and find ourselves beside a little stream that cascades toward the river.

  “The Chin-huai,” Graham explains. “Mooring place of the legendary flower boats.”

  “Flower boats?” Stacy says, digging in the soft sand with the toe of her shoe.

  “When I first traveled to China twenty years ago, you could still see them here. A paper lantern glowed on every boat, and a girl in a bright silk dress stood at the stern. The girls held paper fans printed with the names of songs you could have them sing.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “Sure, but it was business. Each singsong girl had a couple of old men who accompanied her song with handmade string instruments, and when she was finished you had the option of spending the night with her on the boat. If you both agreed, the old men would disembark, the girl would put out the lamp, and you’d be left alone with her.”

  “You talk as if you’d been with one of the singsong girls yourself,” I say.

  Graham winks at me. “Maybe I have.”

  I imagine Graham floating down the silver river, lulled by the sound of the singsong girl’s voice, the flicker of lights. I imagine him shuddering under her touch. There are no flower boats now, and the voices of the singsong girls, were there any here today, would be drowned out by the din of harbor traffic and the train rumbling over the bridge. The stream is almost clear though, and the occasional gum wrappers, Baiji Juice bottles, and tattered shoes that float downstream seem benign in comparison to the immense volume of garbage that litters the great river for which the Chin-huai is destined.

  Graham leads us through a series of narrow lanes to a small storefront with a ceramic Buddha hanging in the doorway. A young couple sits at one of the tables, talking quietly. Two teenaged boys are smoking cigarettes by the window. They all turn to stare when we walk in. The owner greets us with laughter. She stands on her tiptoes and slaps Graham on the shoulders.

  “I met her on my first trip up the river,” he explains, “and I’ve been coming back to this restaurant ever since.”

  The woman chats for a minute with Graham, then gives Stacy, Dave, and me a good looking-over. She touches Stacy’s hair and feels the fabric of my dress, then gestures to show that she thinks Dave has very broad shoulders. She says something to Dave. Graham translates. “My friend wants to know how much you earn per year.”

  Dave shrugs. “We get by.”

  Graham translates the exchange. “How much exactly?” When neither of us answers, he laughs. “Get used to it. You’ll find that everyone in China wants to know how much you make.”

  The woman seats us and shouts back to the kitchen, and immediately a young girl brings out a platter of boiled calamari. Within minutes large dishes begin appearing: pork in a rich red sauce, rice noodles with shredded beef, spicy green beans, tofu with diced chicken. She brings us two warm bottles of Tsing Tao beer, which she pours into four glasses.

  “Jenny tells me you do business in China,” Dave says.

  “Used to,” Graham replies. “Crane safety. In the eighties, with Deng Xiaoping’s reforms, the whole country went wild with construction. New shops and apartment buildings started going up all over the place. Loads of money to be made by foreigners and Chin
ese businesses alike. My company’s job was to make sure the cranes were safe for the workers.”

  “What made you get out of the business?”

  “The Three Gorges Dam. The government was extolling the virtues of the dam, and people were making money hand over fist. I admit I saw dollar signs, just like everyone else. But the more I read about the project, the more uncomfortable I felt.”

  “Isn’t the dam supposed to create power?” Dave asks. “Control flooding?”

  Graham shrugs. “That’s what they say. And maybe, to a small extent, it’s true. But, ultimately, the cost is too great. I’ve been up and down this river dozens of times. I can’t imagine just plugging it up. It’s all very sad.”

  The conversation dies out. Around us, the sounds of the city: On the street, hundreds of bicycle bells jingle. Vendors shout at passersby. A group of elderly men just outside the doorway slap mahjong tiles onto a table and tick off their scores in loud, excited voices. Occasionally they burst into laughter. Beyond the red curtain that separates the dining room from the kitchen, dishes crash. Stacy eyes her beer without drinking it and I shift a fish head around on my plate. The dead eye gazes up at me. Graham seems lost in thought. Dave, meanwhile, is listening, looking around, taking in everything. He thrives on pandemonium. For Dave, the noisier it is, the clearer his focus. I can tell by the way he sets his chopsticks neatly on each side of his plate, like a fork and spoon, and rearranges the napkin on his lap, that he’s about to launch into a line of questioning.

  “Graham,” he says. “I understand you have Lou Gehrig’s disease.” I give Dave a little kick under the table, but he persists. “Are you in pain?”

  Far from being offended, Graham seems utterly at ease with the question. “Yes. I’m in quite a lot of pain, in fact. Not at this moment, but there’s rarely a week when I’m not knocked flat by it at some point. It’s not the muscle atrophy, but rather the side effects—the aches and swelling.”

  “God,” Stacy says. “That sounds awful.” She struggles with a piece of calamari, which slides through her chopsticks and lands in her lap.