“Temple. They were all destroyed in the bombing. But it doesn’t matter. The temple of faith resides in our hearts.”
“So you’re never going to go to the movies with me.” He put the frame on the desk, walked to her side, and, boldly, he took her hand. The air was warm, maddening, like an anticipation, a prelude of something breathtaking. He ran his fingers on her arm and played “The Last Rose of Shanghai.” He didn’t exert much force, using long fingers to produce quieter and softer notes. He could feel the smooth fabric of her dress, the suppleness of her body, and the tensing and loosening of her muscles.
He tried to remain stoic, to concentrate on playing, but he began to perspire. His fingers slid and lingered; he didn’t know whether he was playing legato, or piano, or forte. And he could hear her, too, her sweet thoughts, her breath, her passionate “Yes.”
He held her face and kissed her as she parted her lips and invited him in. He was drunk with happiness; it seemed the purpose of his life was fulfilled at that precise moment, with the taste of her on his tongue and the sound of her gentle groan in his ears. She was open, with unstoppable energy, her hands combing through his hair, her breasts rubbing against his chest. Then she hoisted herself up to sit on the desk. The tightness of her embrace and the longing in her eyes sent an electrifying fire down his spine. He kissed her chin, her neck, her shoulder, and all the way down to her soft breasts, but it was not enough. His skin tingled with an urge to feel her, skin to skin, tongue to tongue. He bent over, lifted her dress to her stomach, and kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh.
Men’s voices came from the hallway outside; he froze, unwilling to separate himself from her, but suddenly the voices pounded in his ears.
21
AIYI
I stood up, pulled my dress down, and parted quickly from Ernest, just before the two shadows appeared at the open door: Cheng in an eggshell-white suit and Ying in a walnut-toned jacket with red suspenders. Ernest turned around to leave, and I swept aside my bangs, making a conscious effort to control my breathing.
Cheng watched Ernest as he walked past. Then Cheng looked at me, his gaze drilling deep into my skin. I didn’t know what to say. It was only a kiss, except it wasn’t just a kiss, because I had wanted more, and I didn’t feel ashamed about wanting Ernest, either. But Cheng, my future husband, must never know. I could feel his suspicion, his jealousy, and his rising anger as he struck a match to light a cigarette, each intake of his breath a curled fist to my face.
My throat burned with nervousness. The perfection of Cheng was as thin as fine silk, and years of being babied by his mother, worshipped by his sisters, cousins, nannies, and servants, and groomed by his late chauvinistic father had created a man with a deep sense of privilege equipped with an explosive temper. I knew well of the subtle lift of his smooth eyelids, the pinch of his full lips, and the stiff turn of his body.
“What’s the pianist doing here?” Ying asked.
“He’s on a magazine cover. Emily wrote an article about him. Everyone in Shanghai knows him now. He’s famous. Here, take a look.” I was glad Ying asked.
“How did she know about him?”
“She’s a journalist. She knows everything. You are here early today. No mah-jongg?”
“Sinmay said the Japanese thugs interrogated him for hours because he published a forbidden article. They set all the journals on fire. Big loss. Sinmay was in a foul mood, wouldn’t play. Want to go play poker?” Ying looked at Cheng.
He was looking down at the two movie tickets that I had not had a chance to hide.
“Let’s go,” Ying said. “Cheng?”
“Aiyi, you come too.”
I sat on my tufted high-backed chair, avoiding Cheng’s eyes. The way he spoke frightened me. He must have been suspicious, after seeing the movie tickets. “I have things to do.”
“Come with us.” Cheng put his hands around my shoulders, so I knew this was not up for discussion.
The moment I got in his Buick, I was trapped. Ying had stopped at the club’s bar to get a drink before we left, and I was alone with Cheng. He had dismissed his chauffeur.
“You forgot to wear your bra again.” He gave a low growl.
“I’ll remember to wear it tomorrow.” I looked at the window, but I couldn’t see anything with the fabric curtain hanging in the way. I could hear the automobiles, the rickshaws, the oxen drivers, the bicycles, and an echo of a gunshot in the distance.
“Come, sit on my lap,” he said. This had been our intimacy, me sitting on him and him exploring me. I had been fine with it. But somehow the thought of Cheng’s hands on my skin, the skin Ernest had touched, gave me goose bumps.