Years of Red Dust Read Free

in a white raincoat.
    She had a couple of purses in one hand and several bags and suitcases heaped on the curb, and she stood in her high-heeled sandals, waving her other hand frantically at any remote resemblance of a taxi—at the moment, the approaching tricycle of mine. As I had guessed, she was anxious to go to the airport. Perhaps in her mid-thirties, she had a willowyfigure, fragile against the pile of luggage. There was an elusive quality about her, especially in her large eyes, something that reminded me of a blossoming pear tree, transparent in the late spring. She hesitantly murmured in a distinct Beijing accent that, after purchasing the airline ticket, she did not have much money left. That was possibly true. A ticket those days could have cost a fortune. The tricycle trunk should be enough for all her belongings, among which I noticed a blackboard with the names of Beijing operas written on it.
    Then recognition came. She was none other than Xiao Dong, a celebrated Beijing opera actress. I cannot say I’m a Beijing opera fan. Only once could I afford seeing her perform on the stage of the Heavenly Toad Theater. She played Yuhuan, a beautiful Tang imperial concubine, alone in her chamber, drunk, amorous with the fantasy of her lord enjoying rapturous cloud and rain with another imperial concubine. It was such a breathtaking performance, the flowers must have shamefacedly folded themselves before her graceful charm. Xiao was so much more than that. It’s hard to put into words. Well, you may have heard those Beijing opera terms—orchid fingers, water sleeves, wasp waist, and lotus blossom steps . . . Suffice it to say that she brought all of them to perfection. You would have to watch her perform to really understand the art of Beijing opera. Many people declared that they were willing to drown in “the autumn waves” of her eyes. I knew betterthan to have such dreams. Even one of those flower baskets presented to her after her performance cost more than I earned in a whole year.
    What’s more, she was said to have been pursued by Shen, a business tycoon connected to the Nationalist government as well as the Blue Triad. A couple of years earlier, when she had lost her voice, almost ending her career, Shen helped her, bringing in the best doctor from Germany. After her recovery, he proposed, but she did not consent, because he was a married man. It was not uncommon for such a man to have a second wife or concubine, and her resistance could have ended up like an egg thrown against a stone wall, but to everyone’s surprise, instead of using his Triad connections and resorting to force, he kept piling flower baskets against the stage she walked on, smiling and applauding like one under a spell. Then, however, the incredible story of the two was drowned in the headlines of the civil war. I had not heard anything about the pair for a while, and I had no clue how Xiao came to be standing here, all alone.
    â€œYou are Xiao!”
    â€œYou know me?”
    â€œWhy are you leaving Shanghai?” It was none of my business, but I imagined few would enjoy Beijing opera in Taiwan, where most people spoke the Taiwan dialect.
    â€œI have no choice. Shen is dying in Hong Kong.” She added, “Sick, broke, his assets all gone because of the war.He’s nobody there, lying in a hospital with needles stuck all over his body. A dragon stranded in a shallow pool is being ridiculed by shrimps.”
    That sounded like a line from a Beijing opera, the name of which I’ve forgotten. I was not that thrilled with the quote: though not necessarily a shrimp, I was no dragon in her eyes. Still, her statement overwhelmed me.
    Xiao chose not to go to him when he was rich and powerful. Now that he was down and out, she was giving up everything, flying to him at the expense of her career. The city, gloomy with the spreading evening, appeared to be suddenly glistening in her large, lambent