The Lost Garden Read online

  My name is Meilan. Cheers, Mr. Wang. I’m pleased to meet and learn from you. (This hot pot is made with shredded bamboo and locally grown chicken. The clear broth goes especially well with the liquor.)

  My name is Nancy. Cheers, Mr. Li. I’m pleased to meet and learn from you. (Waiter, we’re out of ice. Bring us some more.)

  My name is Wawa. Cheers, Mr. Wu. I’m pleased to meet and learn from you. (Here’s some lemon, freshly squeezed, real lemon juice. Add some to your glass to prevent dry mouth at night.)

  My name is Ziyan. Cheers, Mr. Zhu. I’m pleased to meet and learn from you. (Towels. Do we have hot towels? Bring us some hot towels, waiter.)

  The men drank and played the finger-guessing game. At first the game was played among the men only, but then the losers asked their assigned girls to play for them. As the girls joined in, the men picked up the speed of their drinking, to a point that they didn’t even wait for the girls to pour. They did it themselves, half a glass for a finger-guessing round, one glass for three rounds or maybe four. Sometimes the losers were made to down the liquor in one drink.

  Why haven’t we seen you here recently?

  Hey, fill up your glass. Look at mine, it’s full.

  Go on, play this round for me.

  Here, give me a hug. It’s been a long time since I last held you in my arms.

  Hey, you can’t do that. A rain check on your turn to drink? When will you really drink it?

  More and more XO Brandy was brought out and poured into a decanter with ice. The amber liquid was diluted after the ice melted, turning into a lusterless light brown and then an even lighter brown, with a tinge of lifeless white. Brandy that would normally overflow without dripping down the side of the glass could not withstand the added water; the liquid now oozed over the rims of the glasses.

  They drained glasses of XO Brandy, dumping tumblers of the stuff into their open mouths. The brandy also figured in the guessing game, and it took little time for them to empty a case of twenty bottles.

  The dinner, like all banquets in Taipei’s business circles, was held in a small private restaurant room. A few dozen square meters in size, the room had only one door, which was tightly shut. The walls were decorated with red silk and satin on top and metal wainscoting. Spray painted in purple, the ceilings were sprinkled with gold dust. More than a dozen small lightbulbs shone from artistically designed lamps, their shiny metal shades inlaid with stained glass. These details were considered to represent grandeur and luxury, which was why they were all used here.

  Their din echoed in the room, bouncing off the wainscoting up to the ceiling before careening back down to be absorbed by the silk fabric, giving off a muffled sound like someone chewing and gnawing on bones with the mouth closed.

  Lin Xigeng sat there, the picture of idle ease, holding a cigarette in one hand. He looked at the men and women in front of him, playing games, drinking, and flirting, a barely perceptible smile on his face, as if he were outside what was a common scene for him.

  On that early spring evening, sitting across the enormous round table from him, I thought I saw a weary look on the face of Lin Xigeng, a host who was remiss in getting his guests to eat.

  He seemed to have seen it all, an impression that was particularly noticeable when he was not talking. As he looked down, the frames of his glasses masked the expression in his eyes and gave his face a glum look. His dark suit coat made him appear quite understated.

  I’ll never forget what he wore that night, for it was too casual for a banquet host. The tailoring was so-so, the color too dark; he was tieless and his suit was wrinkled. He must have been wearing the same clothes during the day and came over to entertain right after work.

  It was on that early spring evening that I first met Lin Xigeng and the dinner guests around the table. His guests weren’t necessarily unimportant figures, but he didn’t make an effort to offer them drinks or supply topics for conversation. Instead, he just sat there, as if he were hiding most of himself somewhere inside. As a result, the glum understatement so typical of him left something undecided about a real estate tycoon who was rumored to be worth billions of dollars and who’d had love affairs with many women in the entertainment industry; he had an air about him that was unrelated to his business, an inclination akin to a need and desire for something else.

  At that moment I had a profound sense that the successful man before me was quite different from other successful entrepreneurs I’d met. To be sure, he was accomplished, but he was brimming with a sense of imperfection, an uncertainty of which even he himself was likely unaware. It was precisely that deeply touching sense of uncertainty and dissatisfaction that convinced me that there was a place for a woman in this man’s life.

  Like most of the business dinners in Taipei, a nagashi team came in some time during the evening, a typical band with a man and a woman. The modish young man had shoulder-length hair and the woman, who was barely twenty, went without makeup. Dressed in common jeans and a blouse, she was obviously telling the audience that she was different from the other women of the trade.

  The nagashi band brought their own electronic keyboard and a drum set, which, when turned all the way up, submerged the room in roaring, deafening music, making it impossible to talk to someone even across the table. The finger-guessing games came to a stop, and the men now slid into the girls’ arms, holding them or resting their heads on their chests.

  The nagashi woman began with a fast-tempo Mandarin song, after which she asked, microphone in hand, if any of the guests would like to sing. The men all fell into an act of feigned modesty and politeness, and in the end none of them went up. One of the girls then got up and sang a Taiwanese song, “Lingering Old Feelings.” When she returned to her seat, one of Lin Xigeng’s employees offered her a red, five-hundred-NT bill in front of everyone. It was a reward, which she accepted with ease; except for a “thank-you,” she said nothing, did not even smile.

  The girls now took turns singing, each song earning a reward of five hundred NT. One after another they went up, in an impressively orderly fashion. Most of their songs were sad, sentimental love songs; the singers were absorbed in their songs, in either Taiwanese or Mandarin, about being abandoned by heartless lovers. Accompanied by very loud music, their voices, amplified by the microphone, did not sound entirely human, resembling a collective effect created by a machine; it seemed that anyone who opened her mouth could be a singer, but it was impossible to tell just who was singing.

  With the steadily loud music increasing the effects of alcohol, the men began to take off their ties and unbuttoned their shirts to reveal flabby chests and bellies. Their hands also got frisky, worming their way under the girls’ clothes to reach for their breasts or under their skirts. Yinghong grabbed the purse on her knees, fighting the urge to get up and leave.

  She wondered why her uncle had brought her to this dinner. Normally he wouldn’t let her come if these girls were around. Was it because he was unaware this time or because he couldn’t find someone else to accompany him? Or was it all involved with the land he was planning to sell to Lin? In any case, she couldn’t leave. If she did, she would offend the host, for which her uncle would bear the consequences.

  As she hesitated, the music paused, since no one went up to sing. One of the girls knocked over a chopstick when she tried to evade a man’s face that had come too close to hers.

  “My chopstick,” she said with a flirty pout. “You have to get me another one.”

  “Do you really need to find another one? You can have mine. I promise it’ll be big enough to fill you up and make you happy,” the man said.

  Laughter erupted in the room. Yinghong stood up with her purse, but her exit route was blocked by a tall figure. It was Lin Xigeng, who said calmly:

  “Let’s dance.”

  “Here?” She was unsure.

  Before she could protest, he put his arm around her shoulder, forcefully moving her away from her seat into the area between the band an
d the tables.

  At first she felt that the carpet under her feet was making it hard to move, as if her shoes were caught in the pile. Fortunately, Lin was barely moving his feet; they seemed to simply sway from side to side. Then she was relaxed enough to notice the music, a slow waltz.

  “Is it really all right to dance here?” Unease caused her to blurt this out, but the moment she said it she realized that with the thunderous music, Lin couldn’t have heard her even though they were practically pressed against each other. She could only turn her face toward him and shout into his ear, which made it natural for them to dance in each other’s arms without worrying about how they looked to the others.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his head and raising his voice slightly to speak into her ear, but most of what he said was lost amid loud music mixed with someone singing. She repeated her question, but only heard the second half of his answer:

  “… is there a better place to hold a girl in one’s arms?”

  Nodding, she relaxed her arm on his shoulder and held him lightly.

  One by one, the other dinner guests got up to join them. Some of the drunken men were holding the girls, but it looked like they were hanging onto them as their hands roamed over their bodies. Others continued to dance, seemingly still sober, and pressed their bodies tightly up against those special areas of the women’s bodies. Zhu frowned and gave Lin a smile, before looking away. She heard someone singing:

  I never thought the feeling of separation could be so sad

  It was not till today that I knew it takes so much strength to even say good-bye

  Like most popular love songs, this one spoke of an honest sorrow, using simple words for longing to express heartbreak. The only difference was that the singer had a low voice, which meant she had to struggle to ring out the higher tones, creating the effect of undying love, as if every word were like crying through blood and tears. With a few turns on the dance floor, Yinghong was able to see the singer—one of the girls hired for that night’s dinner, who was standing by the musicians, holding a microphone. Yinghong could not recall whether her name was Meilan or Fangfang, mainly because she held the microphone close to her mouth in big, bony hands that covered half her face.

  Those were the hands of a woman traditionally considered born to a sad life in the entertainment industry. Eyes closed and head tilted slightly back, she presented a picture of self-degradation so typical of women in the red light district. As she sang, her head and shoulders swayed, her tightly knit brows painting her young face with the sorrow and bleakness of someone who had already suffered her fair share of a tough life.

  If I’d known it would be like this, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you go

  I told you I wouldn’t cry

  I told you I give you my fond good wishes

  Never once had a low-class popular song, especially one about nothing but love and hate bellowed out of a working girl’s mouth on a night of heavy drinking and carnal pleasure, exerted such irresistible power. Yinghong first felt the effects of the alcohol surging vaguely inside; the slow-dance steps required little movement, but she began to feel dizzy.

  Then there was the music, deafening music that made her feel as though she were sinking. The drum set was beating faster than her heart, each note thumping violently against her chest, while the fast-tempo keyboard was made to sound like flying arrows. On top of that was the girl’s song about deep, boundless sorrow and bitterness that accompanied profound love, which was slowly seeping through the loud music and worming its way into her heart.

  I want to hold back my tears but I can’t keep my sorrow in check

  I don’t know when my face became covered in tears

  Finally I understood the feeling of abandonment.

  I rested my head on Lin Xigeng’s shoulder, utterly disgusted by the unbearable banquet. For the first time in my life, I was at the same table as a group of working girls who drank and flirted with Taipei’s nouveau riche, falling short only of having sex then and there. Worse yet, I was actually touched by the love and resentment in a sappy popular song sung by a woman of the trade.

  In fact, it became clear to me that I was engaged in self-indulging abandonment; or to put it differently, in a degenerating indulgence. I experienced fierce, drunken pleasure, the enjoyment of letting myself go.

  Which was how I finally comprehended feelings of abandonment.

  For different reasons, our desire for love meant that we, as women—the working girl, the song, and I—were doomed to be underappreciated, for no one could truly understand or know how to cherish us; true reciprocal feelings would never be ours to enjoy.

  Since we knew our fate, we—the working girl, the girl in the song, and I—would be better off if we abandoned love altogether. Then, after experiencing the helplessness and bitterness of regret, disenchantment with self-abandonment would lead us to endless degenerating and indulgent acts, the deprivation accompanied by wretched resentment and decadent pursuits.

  If I’d known it would be like this, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you go

  I told you I wouldn’t cry

  I told you I give you my fond good wishes

  Zhu Yinghong felt that her body was drifting and disintegrating, inch by inch, as the thunderous drum continued to pound against the deepest recess of her heart. The song continued, with its sorrow and bitterness from the self-abnegation of love, roared and roared as it movingly depicted a drunken, frenzied, orgiastic sensation.

  I was dazed, but I couldn’t stop thinking that, if at that moment this tall, handsome man had understood, I’d have gone with him anywhere to do anything.

  Never once had I experienced such a fierce desire for a man I’d known only for a few hours. I’d fallen for good-looking men before, but it was never quite like this. I couldn’t control the intoxicating desire for carnal pleasure; I’d never felt such longing to be held, touched, and pressed down hard by a man.

  I told myself that all I wanted was a feeling of being fulfilled and belonging to someone, the kind of contact I could not complete alone, a comforting sensation that could come only from a man’s embrace and caresses.

  But I immediately knew that no one could understand me, and that I was doomed to be hurt.

  Leaning against Lin Xigeng, Zhu Yinghong maintained a level of self-control even under the influence of alcohol and the titillating ambience, but she was nevertheless shocked by her own reckless reactions. The tall man offered such comfortable arms, and the charming song expressed such intoxicating emotions, that she decided to let herself go and not worry about anything.

  The song came to an end in her dazed state, but she kept her hand on his shoulder; it was only when he began to talk that she realized that the deafening music was over, replaced by a sudden emptiness and silence. Now she heard his every word.

  “You look like you were born in the last century,” he said. “You have a serene quality particular to women of that age.”

  Still recovering, she looked up at him but didn’t respond.

  “With the virtues of traditional Taiwanese women, who were chaste, submissive, well brought up, and well behaved.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “You really look like you were born in the last century, the turn of the last century, to Taiwan’s last gentry family,” he continued.

  “Like in the 1890s.”

  She said, more like a reflex, but she was surprised by how loud she was, with her body still very much draped over his, the way they had been dancing.

  “Something like that.”

  He said with a nod, to which she responded with another smile. But perhaps because she had yet to recover from a drunken, sentimental state, her face quivered and that smile began to spread, uncontrollably, until she cracked open her mouth and began to laugh, accompanied by tears. Then she heard herself blurt out without thinking:

  “Like I was born in the last year of the First Sino-Japanese War.”

  A blanket of lotus fl
owers bloomed before her eyes, seemingly covering the sky.

  In early summer the lotus leaves that had just sprouted were a pleasant green, each long, round leaf rippling like a green wave when a breeze blew past. After an occasional shower in the summer afternoon, the drops of rain remaining on the leaves rolled around and sparkled. The lotus grew abundant new leaves that were layered upon one another until they clamored over the bench into the center of Flowing Pillow Pavilion. Sometimes a red lotus stem would squeeze through the leaves and open its pink petals to reveal the tender yellow stamen.

  Father was sitting on a rosewood lounge chair with mother-of-pearl inlay. His hair was showing some gray; the fineness of the hair gave it a light quality, so the pale gray hair, with its natural curl, fell gently around his face. Crow’s-feet adorned his slightly sunken eyes, which looked large and pretty with their double folds, but there was a quiet liveliness in the expression.

  Yinghong knocked on the open wooden door. Now in high school, she was tall enough to reach the top of the frame, and no longer had to experience the panicky fear whenever the tightly shut door wouldn’t budge, even if she pushed hard. Over the years, Father had gradually dropped the habit of locking every door and window wherever he happened to be, and he no longer spent hours in bed.

  “Ayako.” Looking up from the book he was reading, Father called her Japanese name in an even more tender tone. He spoke to her in Japanese, as usual. “You came at the right time, Ayako. I’m going through some books that have been in our family for a long time. You know I haven’t read these Chinese books for many years.”

  “Hai.” With her hands on her knees, she leaned forward slightly to respond in Japanese, before squatting beside her father’s rosewood lounge chair.

  “I happened to open to the page in the History of Jin where Wang Ji wrote about ‘using the flowing water as a pillow and rinsing his mouth with rocks.’ Who among the intellectuals, particularly those in present-day Taiwan, has the strength of character befitting the spirit of ‘using the flowing water as a pillow in order to wash the ears and rinsing the mouth with rocks in order to sharpen the teeth’?”