On quiet nights , when the darkness had no borders , she would bring me to the lake . The cuckoo birds would sing their sorrowful songs to the lone fisherman , and she would smoke her perfumed cigarettes wordlessly . I ’ d crane my neck to search their infinite eyes for a glimpse of red , but the only colour I could ever see was in the flickering flame by my side . The moon would shine , uninterrupted .
*
Her cryptic remark escaped me until she asked one evening in my arms , “ Don ’ t you know we ’ re on the brink of war ? It ’ s on the papers , every day .” She was toying with a crumpled handkerchief , twisting it round and round between her fingers . “ They ’ re all about war , war , war .”
“ There ’ s always war ,” I said quietly , encircling my arms around her waist , pressing my lips onto her hair . “ Wherever you are , wherever you go . You can ’ t run .”
The breeze sighed and stirred the linen curtains gently . Outside the window , the people flickered like moths ; here , and gone , here , and gone again ; but their footsteps had hastened into a stride . The thoughtless were still playing mahjong , their impetuous laughter a key sharper than yesterday .
“ Stay with me ,” she said , her voice hard and fragile all at once ; and I obeyed . *
I found her at dawn leaning halfway out the window , cigarette in hand , hair tousled into a nest . Her face was basked in light , softened by the dawn ’ s tender touch . In another life , I thought , we could have been angels . There would be nothing beneath us but sky .
“ Awake so early ?” She shook her head and murmured , “ Just one last time before the siege .” Below us , the peddlers of Shanghai had begun their aubades :
“ Pears ! Mandarins ! Fruits of the season ! Come buy your pears ! Mandarins ! Fruits of the season ! Fruits of the season – Fruits of the season –”
1932 , Year Ren Shen . We awoke to the sound of bombs .
With an abject cry , she pulled apart the curtains . There was smoke , smoke everywhere , piercing screams , someone shouting something foreign , guttural ; and then she turned towards me with bright tears staining her face –
“ They ’ re bombing us ,” she said hoarsely . “ They ’ re bombing us –”
I tried to say hush now , hush … Her trembling fingers fumbled on the nightstand , searching for their solace .
It would not light .
She pressed the switch frantically . Still it would not light . A spark came to life , but it was short-lived , dying like the insurgents at daybreak .
For a moment she was quiet . Then she drew dry , heaving sobs , and her tears fell as ceaselessly as the enemy fire .
*