“Longevity?” She gave him a furtive look, almost as if she were guilty of something.
“Isn’t that what everybody wants?”
She didn’t say anything else.
On the way back to his apartment, she rested her head against his shoulder. Her hair smelled of frankincense. The Sacred Tears of Thebes. He should forget about what she might or might not have done. Who she might or might not be. He should forget about what people said. He had only been seeing her for a few weeks, and it seemed doubtful that it would last. The affair would burn itself out, like all the others. Why not make the most of things in the little time that they had left? He felt his heart expand, as it had expanded in the nightclub dream, but there were no girls in tight black tops and no golden lounges, and the small man in the pale blue suit wasn’t a metaphor for anything, or an oracle. He was just one of life’s many enigmas. Not every question had an answer.
* * *
—
Once Chun Tao had dropped them outside Zhang’s building, they hurried through the revolving doors and across the lobby. The concierge said good evening, but they didn’t stop. In the lift, they stood against opposing walls, their eyes on the illuminated numbers above the door. Their desire for each other was so powerful that they didn’t know what to do with it. They couldn’t look at each other, or even speak.
Then they were in his apartment and stumbling towards the bed, undressing each other as they went, no time to turn on any of the lights, just the city’s brownish-yellow glow filling the room like a liquid, slowing them down. She clutched at him as if afraid of being cut loose—or perhaps he was the one who was adrift, and she was trying to rescue him. Sometimes he felt she was stronger than he was, but then she would startle him with a moment of defenselessness or vulnerability, the one seemingly rooted in the other in a way he could never grasp. He remembered Gulsvig telling him about Nina. That night at the party, on the outskirts of Helsinki. I have this secret. I can’t tell you what it is. That sounded just like the woman he was with. Waves took him, luminous and supple. He gave himself to them. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. No world but this world, no moment but this moment. She came first, which made him come, then she appeared to come again, her cries and shudders impossible to separate from his…
At last, they fell back, breathing hard, his left hand behind his head, her right arm across his belly, a cold place where the ring was.
“I had something engraved on the inside,” he said.
“The inside of what?” Her voice was drowsy.
“The ring.”
She propped herself on one elbow. “What does it say?”
“You can look.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“All right. It says: My heart is like the pine and cypress / But what is your heart like?”
She didn’t speak. There was just the silver glitter of her eyes.
“They’re not my words,” he said. “They were written by Li Po, a great T’ang poet. The same era as the vases we saw earlier.”
Li Po had traveled widely, and had a reputation for heavy drinking and general irresponsibility. What would Li Po have done? This was something Johnny Yu would often say, when he found himself in a dilemma, and the Li Po option was always the most reckless and attractive of those on offer.
“It’s from one of the Wu songs,” Zhang went on. “He would take song structures and write poems to fit them. The poems were intended to be lighthearted and playful. They were very popular at the time.”
“If your heart is like the pine and cypress,” Naemi said, “I imagine your feelings must be steadfast and true.”
“Yes,” he said, “I’m not known for that.”
She smiled. “Have you changed? Did I change you?”
He didn’t answer.
“You feel something for me which is constant,” she went on. “That’s what the ring is saying?”
“Yes.”
“But you want to know what I’m feeling…”
“It’s Li Po talking, remember? It’s not serious. Constancy is the one thing he can’t manage.” He paused. “Do you love me? People ask that a lot. But it’s the wrong question.”
She was nodding. “I agree.”
There was a silence, and he must have fallen asleep because when he reached for her she wasn’t there. Sometimes, when he woke, he thought he had only dreamed that he was with her, but there she would be, reading on the chair in the corner, under the lamp, or standing beside the bed, reaching back to fasten the clip on her bra, or leaning against the window, looking at the view…Lying still, he thought he heard the shower running. He dozed again. Next time he looked, she was in the bedroom, already dressed, strands of fair hair tumbling across her face as she bent down to zip up a boot. Watching her through narrowed eyes, he was struck by her litheness and her grace. An animal, pretending to be human…
“Are you awake?” she said.
He opened his eyes and stretched. “Just about.”
She placed the ring on the bedside table. “I loved wearing it, even for twelve hours, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”
“Why not?”
“It has come at the wrong time.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “You came too close. You asked too many questions.” She paused. “I think I fell for you.”
He watched her, but said nothing.
“It was supposed to be casual,” she went on, “something we could walk into. Walk away from. Intense, but momentary, like a shaft of sunlight reaching down into a forest.” She laughed softly, mocking herself for being so poetic. “I thought you’d be capable of that. I thought it would come naturally to you.”
He took her hand. “The ring is a gift. I’m not holding you to anything.”
“I know. But it’s too much.”
From far below came the ghostly wail of a siren.
“You told me once that you had to protect yourself,” he said. “What are you protecting yourself from?”
She looked away from him, towards the window. Outside, day was breaking. No sign of the sun, just a gradually encroaching grayness.
“It’s something I can’t imagine, isn’t it,” he said.
“This is what I mean,” she said, “by asking too many questions.”
He was silent, thinking. Remembering.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Mad Dog died.”
She stiffened, then removed her hand from his. “What happened?”