Chapter 45: A man meets a woman
A man, pale of skin and blue of eyes, stepped into the large and crowded room, his ginger hair overtopping most of the brilliantly attired cream of society assembled there by centimeters or tens of centimeters. The high ceiling, crisp LEDs shining in constellations from the Chinese horoscope, towered above him. He saw Joyla, nodded slightly, a slight arching of his eyebrow indicating approval of the rugged ornament on her arm.
The man was dressed formally, a black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, dark emerald bow tie, matching pocket square, polished shoes. He scanned the room, saw a tiny figure with spiky hair, her back to him, sheer skin-tight sheathe under a dark blue and ancient style of garment, shoulders erect, talking with the man he knew as the founder of Opera Hong Kong. His will focused, his fingers twitched at his side.
Dian Mu, talking with the man she had installed as the public face of Opera Hong Kong, felt a shift at the base of her spine, felt her name in ancient hanzi form upon her skin. The letters ran up her spine, the most delicate of trailing touches, circled her neck, faded. She let no sign show, did not falter in her discussion with her man on next season’s key performances.
The man walked closer to the woman, slipped a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing server, drained it, placed on another passing tray. His nerves restored, he reached out with will and magic again.
Dian Mu brought her cocktail to her lips, paused, sniffed slightly. She hadn’t remembered that this particular cocktail had vanilla bean in it. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, allowed no other sign or reaction. Opened them, continued talking of whether they would bring Joyla back or engage a new artistic director for the central production of the following year.
The man paused again in his slowly and careful stalking, plucked a steaming piece of dim sum from a passing tray, quail’s egg embedded in pork and prawn, dusted with fish roe. He kept his eyes upon her, ate it slowly, savoured it. Gathered his will.
Dian Mu sipped her cocktail, the rich emulsion transformed in her mouth into the taste of the first dumpling she had eaten after her first tryst, millennia before, a perfect seeming. She was unable to control her reaction this time. A pulse ran through her body, a slight swaying, and those around her reacted to the sudden static and ozone in the air, wondering where it had come from, whether the clear night had become stormy.
The man smiled, slightly, closed the last of the distance to her. He focused once again, will and research and care, spoke.
“Dian Mu.”
She heard her name spoken in a mid-register voice, a lyric tenor. The pronunciation was archaic, that of her village, the vowels shaped with subtlety and longing, the voice infused with passion, the sound of a man who knew and understood her, desired her, had carefully pursued her. It caressed her, three slow syllables, intonation a pressure on her skin. She shuddered with pleasure. Turned. Looked up at him.
The man looked down into the yellow eyes of the goddess before him, needing no artifice to have his eyes those of a man looking at a woman he believes to be magic, a woman he had dreamed of and pursued, a woman he had worked up his courage to approach.
The woman looked up at the gwai lo who had been so beautifully tormenting her, tantalizing her with scents, ginger washes that matched his hair, her name and other intimate things written on her flesh in a unique ink. His blue eyes held promises of long nights and indolent mornings, sensual imagination and playful humour. She couldn’t look look away from them.
Their hands slid out, fingers tracing across each others palms, stopping with index and middle fingers touching each others pulses in their wrists.
“You do take your time in these things, don’t you?”
He looked at her, a tiny flash of confusion crossing his face.
“Come. I have a table for us at Sushi Yoshitake’s.” She gripped his hand, waved goodbye to the public face of Opera Hong Kong, pulled him in her wake through the crowd, faint electrical discharges crawling up his arm, promises of touches to come.
Time slowed, sped up for him. He was in the left-hand seat of a tiny car, impossible forces pushing him into his seat, his harness, a tiny dervish spinning the wheel, grinning fiercely beside him, as they slid madly through the night time traffic of Hong Kong as if they were a wolf bounding through a forest of rooted trees.
Time slowed, sped up for him. He was eating fragrant slices of sushi beyond what he had ever experienced, the crystalline lights of Guangzhou spread out beneath him, approaching courtiers waved away by an impeccable and sheerly clad arm as they approached.
Time slowed, sped up for him. He was in a stunning penthouse, very different from the one with the almond tree, cold and fragrant drink in his hand, graceful sylph talking of what had been occurring.
Time slowed, sped up, slowed, sped up. Stopped altogether.