The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  She sat and began again to try to use the chopsticks. Hopeless! Zhen took some noodles in a spoon and rolled them deftly, waiting for them to cool, then putting them in her mouth. The sensuousness of this act, the placing of the chopsticks in her mouth, her pink lips closing round them, gave him an immediate and huge erection. He blinked slowly. He had waited so long for this, and still he was not sure.

  The noodles were delicious. She had never tasted anything like them. She took the spoon and drank the broth. She was suddenly ravenously hungry. He rolled more noodles and watched her eat. He was not hungry now, except for her. When she finished the bowl she lifted it to her lips and drank to the bottom. Then she noticed he had eaten nothing. His face was a mask.

  ‘You eat?’

  ‘Yes. First tea.’

  He poured the tea Ah Pok had made. It was lukewarm, but Charlotte drank it, though she thought it bitter.

  She rose and went into the room off the central air well. She was curious about this house and its architecture. The air well was wonderful for it allowed light and air and, at that moment drenching rain, to ventilate the house. Two water jars stood, their contents bubbling over and gurgling down a drain.

  Zhen followed her, his bodily control thankfully returning.

  They went into the room off the street.

  ‘Shop for me, china um, thing for sick man, maybe, after marry,’ he told her. ‘Medicine shop’ was what he wanted to explain. He frowned at his bad English.

  She stiffened. Why had he mentioned the damn marriage? But it was fact. She had to accept it.

  ‘Come.’ He took her hand and led her again to the upper floor. They sat on the hard chairs. He wanted to know what had caused her to come.

  ‘Why come, Xia Lou? Why cry?’

  Charlotte struggled with words. ‘My friend’s child sick, go away. I’m very sad, need to see you.’

  Zhen watched her. Did she want him to hold her? Comfort her? He had never had such a hard time reading a woman in his life. He was as nervous as a cat, even here in his house. One wrong move, and he felt she would flee, out of his life.

  Charlotte sensed his indecision. It was natural, she thought; she didn’t even know what she wanted herself, why she had come.

  She rose and went to the door of the next room, but it was locked. She turned quizzically to Zhen. He went to a cupboard and returned with a key, unlocking the door. This room, too, overlooked the air well. It had shutters to keep out the rain. It was very dark now, and Zhen stopped her and went back to the cupboard. He took out the lucifers. These were some new white man’s invention. Quite useful, but volatile. He had taken some from a store at the godown. They fizzed a lot, but he had learned to light a spill and light the oil lamps that way.

  He lit a lamp and brought it into the room. Scents of coconut filled the air. He opened the shutters, then lit another lamp. By the light she could see the strangest assortment of items. Where the other rooms were bare, this one was filled with gorgeous colours and cloths, like Aladdin’s Cave. She took the oil lamp and moved around the room, running her fingers over the costumes, embroidered dark silk covered in pink and yellow flowers, clouds and fabulous golden dragons. Not dragons as she knew them, but creatures with deer horns and camel mouths, the body of a snake covered in fish scales, the claws of an eagle. A Chinese dragon. Then came lacquer trays with silver coins, candles and red packets. She saw two diamond rings flash in the light and a woman’s green silk dress. She understood. These were his marriage clothes and gifts for the wedding day, for his bride.

  Zhen had waited by the door, knowing she would realise. She turned and looked at him.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Not think about this.’

  Charlotte walked out of the room, gave him the oil lamp and went into the corridor; she threw open the shutters to the window and breathed in the rain, which was stopping as the sky suddenly lightened.

  Zhen followed behind her, putting the lamps on a table. He touched her lightly first and then firmly turned her to face him; he took one step back, saying nothing, waiting for her decision.

  Charlotte thought of her mother, her father, their love so quickly cut off. She thought of her Aunt Jeannie with her spinster’s caul; she thought of Robert and Shilah, of George and Takouhi, how precious was their life together, how soon it was coming to an end. Words echoed in her mind:

  ‘Love, all alike no seasons knows, nor clime

  Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time’

  She took the step forward, and Zhen closed his arms around her.

  31

  Zhen took Charlotte’s hand and led her to the bedroom. She took in the remarkable iron bed. Netting draped it like a gauzy canopy, one side tied back to the columns. A facet-edged mirrored cupboard stood against the wall on this side. She could see the bed reflected in it, knew that anyone on the bed would be reflected in it, felt a flush of blood to her face. A low table and chairs and a long chest were the only other furniture in the room.

  Lifting her onto the edge of the high bed, he separated her legs, pushing the material of her skirt down, and stepped between them. He motioned to her to undo the knotted loops on his jacket. Charlotte was nervous, and her hands trembled as she released the cotton toggles. As the jacket fell loose she could not resist—as he knew she would not—running her hand over the smooth skin of his hard chest, touching the tattooed face.

  Taking hold of her lower arms, he moved her hands to his stomach touching the muscles there, then round his waist to the curve of his back and lower, under the edge of his garment, to the muscular swell and deep crevasse of his backside, wanting her get the feel of him on her fingers while he was cloaked from her gaze, so that when she had left him she would not be able to free herself of this touch, his smell, the warmth of his skin. This time with her had come so unexpectedly, and his passion for her was so consuming, that he wanted to burn himself into her heart, to chain her to the wheel of samsara, unquenchable desire returning her to him in an endless cycle from which she could never escape.

  Charlotte felt her heart moving and dropped her forehead onto his chest as he led her in this slow, sensual dance around his body. She had seen drawings of Greek gods, and he felt like that, contoured, sculpted but not cold stone. His skin was warm and silken. She let out a sigh of pure pleasure and kissed his chest. He had not moved.

  He released her arms. She looked up into his face. He was watching her through half-closed eyes, his lips apart, his teeth lightly clenched, and she saw his emotion. Her nervousness vanished. A languorous vapour of dissipation trailed through her body. She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms, her fingers detailing every dip and line of his torso, her eyes never leaving his face. She saw the tiny tremble of his lower lip, the dreaminess of his eyes.

  Zhen took her right hand and pressed it over his heart and slowly moved the other down his abdomen, under the cloth, moulding her fingers around his erection, holding her there. Charlotte closed her eyes, binding him on her memory. Sounds from the street drifted into the room: muted calls and Chinese voices. The after-rain freshness of the breeze from the well rippled around them, ruffling the netting on the bed. The steady beat of his heart spoke to her hands: remember, remember. She envisioned the coursing of his blood, felt her own rushing in her ears. So they stayed thus, motionless, until clouds obscured the light and darkness crept into the room.

  Slowly he released his grip and placed her hands in her lap. He stepped back. Her eyes flew open and met his. In the half-light she watched the dust floating on the air as he pulled off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He lit a match. It flared and fizzed, and he quickly held it to the spill. He moved round the room lighting the candles and oil lamps, sandalwood incense. Zhen knew the effect that candle glow playing on his body could have on a woman, and he smiled, enjoying her gaze as he flashed and flickered on the mirror. He took her off the bed, onto the floor.

  Charlotte watched, filled with curiosity, as he took f
rom the cupboard a bottle of rice wine and two small porcelain cups. He took a red silk ribbon from the drawer of the mirrored console. Its image doubled and redoubled in the reflection as he delicately tied the two ends around the waists of the two cups. With this drink and this red thread he would bind them together, wed them. Whatever happened in this mortal realm, she would be his wife in the river of the afterlife.

  He handed Charlotte a cup and took the other, the thread connecting them. Charlotte had sensed the portent of this ceremony. This was their wedding night, and they would soon consummate their union. These cups symbolised each of them, and the scarlet cord would bind them together. Zhen made a vow to heaven and earth. Charlotte watched him saying the Chinese words.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. Words from Julia’s wedding flew into her mind: ‘With this drink I thee wed.’ It was horrible, but she felt on the verge of a fit of giggles. She knew it was nervousness which had returned, the strangeness of this encounter, the prospect of what was to come, but that did not help. She didn’t know the rules. Fortunately at that moment he lifted the drink to his lips, and she followed him. It was mild and delicious, not strong like her grandmother’s whisky. She felt as if she could drink a jug of it. Why were the glasses so small? A pleasant heat hit the pit of her stomach. Thank the Lord; the urge to laugh had momentarily passed in the newness of this taste.

  He began to undress her, undoing the buttons of her bodice, pushing it off her shoulders. Here, however, he was surprised to be confronted with her corset. He let out a small rumble of bafflement. He had never seen such a garment. He touched her waist, where hard little lines hugged her body, running his fingers up the stays to the swell of her breasts under her camisole, laying his fingers on this fullness, touching the metal hooks which ran down her abdomen. He looked into her eyes. She was smiling at his bewilderment. Slowly he circled her, examining this extraordinary garment, the silken cords criss-crossing her back. Charlotte laughed out loud, a long peal of merriment. The tension drained out of her.

  ‘Corset,’ she said.

  ‘Kaw sit,’ he repeated, shaking his head.

  Taking him by the hand, she led him to a square stool and pointed. He sat, and she spread his legs and stepped in close to him. She undid the top hook. He smiled. She was playing him at his game. A flush of pleasure at her quickness, and he began to release each hook slowly, teasingly, enjoying each little pop. Finally the last hook was released, and he gripped the edges and opened the garment like a book, seeing the outline of her breasts, her nipples erect against the muslin, running his cheek and mouth over her delicately through the cloth, releasing the corset and pulling the short camisole out from her skirt, running his hands up and around her the way he had led hers on him, touching the skin of her breasts with his fingers and palms. His eyes were closed as he traced the map of her body. Charlotte recalled the grabbings and kneadings of her last encounter and could only wonder.

  He stood and took the corset from her shoulders and lifted the short camisole over her head, looked at her, his almond-eyed gaze on her breasts, her shoulders, her mouth, her neck. This look made her tremble, and she felt a liquid swell like a rising tide inside her body. Then he picked up the corset again and dressed her in it, liking the look of her in this exotic garment, her soft shape against its hard slats, its silken sides and little ribbons. Sitting again, he moved her between his legs, gripping the two sides of the corset, opening it and pulling her towards his face.

  He began to run his tongue around the edge of her nipples, biting lightly, kissing and caressing with his lips and breath the gentle swellings of this so-soft skin, moving around her breasts, not touching the hard little bumps. Teasingly he made her wait for the feel of his mouth on this hardness, could feel her tension. When she swayed slightly he knew, and took first one, then the other, into his mouth, nibbling and suckling.

  Charlotte, eyes closed, her hands on his holding her in this delicious prison, gave a deep sigh, felt a looseness in her limbs. Her pulse rose higher. She had no desire to laugh now. These were not the fumblings of Lonnie or Will. She didn’t know the rules of this engagement, but he did. The sweet odour of sandalwood and coconut drifted on the air.

  Then, suddenly standing, he pushed the tapes of the corset from her shoulders, flinging it off her, and with a low moan took her by the waist turning her back to him, burying his head in her neck, kissing her shoulders, stroking her breasts, running his hand over her soft belly, down under the waistband of her skirt, seeking her, pulling her into him. Charlotte’s eyes had flown open at this sudden change of mood, the urgency and hardness of his touch, and then he stopped moving, took his hand from her skirt and wrapped one arm around her waist, the other over her breasts, his hand on her neck, holding her in check. She stayed quietly in this vice-like embrace, feeling the movement of his abdomen on her back, the deepness of his breath on her shoulder. Strangely, she felt no fear. Since the encounter in the jungle, she knew he would never harm her.

  Zhen pulled himself under control. He needed to stop, step away from her. Charlotte felt him release her, his breath jagged. She turned to face him. He held up his hand. He couldn’t believe it. He had been on the very brink. This had not happened to him since the first months with the fourth concubine. He flooded with joy, felt like falling to her feet in worship. To find intoxicating, exhilarating passion, to forget the mechanical and pointless lovemaking which had become mere physical release, the bliss of it. He took her by the hand and led her to the table, and they sat. This was why poets wrote. The orchid-scented room, the incense-filled curtains, lotus blossoms, perfumed jewels and flowers of fire. He stopped looking at her, spoke to the table, shaking his head, searching for beautiful words, frustrated at this lack of language.

  ‘Sorry Xia Lou. Please wait.’

  She had moved him into halls and corridors of magic, and this was all he could manage. He deeply felt its inadequacy.

  She nodded, frowning slightly, not truly understanding. When he looked up again, she saw he had regained his composure.

  He stood, pulling her from the chair; moving behind her, he began to unpin her hair, letting it drop over her shoulders and back, running his hand over the silky blackness. He moved round her, dropped his mouth to her mouth, kissing her lightly and brushing his lips on her cheeks. Sighing, she reached for him. He lifted her onto the bed, spreading her hair away from her body.

  She lay back, watching him. Kneeling either side of her waist, he put the cord of his pants into her hand. She smiled disarmingly at this little game. He felt dizzy and hot. Love, he made a mental note, sapped your will. He breathed himself under control.

  Watching his chest rise and fall, her eyes on his, she thought she understood. He wanted to give her this gift of slowness, but it was being compromised by his desire for her. She knew what happened when a man wanted her too much. She didn’t want to go home yet. Sitting, she undid the knot, gazing at the bulge underneath the thin cloth, wanting to touch him but unsure of his reaction.

  She released the cord and ran the trousers down over his hips. He was wrapped in a cloth, and it was Charlotte’s turn to look nonplussed, for she could not see how to undo this garment. She looked up at him, then reached towards him. He grasped her wrists and kissed the faint marks of the ligatures, which had almost disappeared.

  ‘No, Xia Lou. Fast not good, wait.’

  He began to undress her unhurriedly, removing her skirt, then her petticoats. At each layer he gave a little laugh. He was surprised by how many clothes a Western woman could support in this hot climate. Finally he came to her pantalettes, with their rim of ruffles on the lower leg. This garment was also intriguing, particularly when he saw that the crotch was open from the waist to the rim of the ruffle. Really, Zhen thought, white women had sexy underwear, that ‘kaw sit’ thing in particular. He could imagine making love to her in these two garments. Removing this last piece of clothing, he threw it on the floor and, laughing, she joining him. He was calm now and had felt his
erection recede.

  She was perfect, the perfection of a lover’s eyes. Her face was slightly tanned but the skin of her body was like smooth ivory, the triangle of her hair raven black. He saw a scar on her upper arm, remembered her telling him of an accident in a boat. He began to kiss her body with gentle lips, sniffing her aroma, probing with his tongue, caressing with his hands, a touch so light she felt like butterflies had taken possession of her skin.

  She wanted to kiss him too, but languidly surrendered to this delicate exploration of her body from neck to toes, watching in the mirror the play of the muscles under his skin as he moved. She entered a floating world of dreamy listlessness, rising and sinking like bubbles on the air. Nothing had prepared her for this drug-like state, and she sighed when he stopped.

  He released the loincloth, lay down next to her and took her in his arms, kissing her with his alchemist’s kiss. She ran her hands languorously over his chest and back, the smooth skin of his face and head, his thick queue. Turning on his chest he motioned her to mount his waist. His queue descended to below the curve of his backside. She draped herself on him, her hair falling around him like a silken curtain. Still half in dream, she began moving herself against his body, the thickness of his queue, the hardness of him, kissing the muscles of his shoulders, the curve of his arms, smelling him, arms wound under his, gripping his shoulders, licking the sweat from his skin, absorbing his maleness, this Chinese yang she had only just discovered. Gone was the dream state; she felt utterly wanton and lascivious. She wanted to melt into his sinew, become every inch of his flesh.

  As he felt her reach this place of lust, he moved her off his back and turned her quickly and gently. Now he could do anything with her, but she had aroused him, too, taken him down a corridor of clouds to the dew-edged roof of paradise.

  Slow, slow. He held her close, unmoving, face buried in her hair. Breathe, breathe. He moved between the valley of her breasts and pressed her against him. Raising his leg over her hip, he took her hand between his legs and manoeuvred her fingers to the place where he could regain control, pressing firmly. Lying quietly in his arms, the feel of his hardness on her skin, the touch of her fingers helping him in some way she did not fully understand, Charlotte felt a great wave of love for this man and his mastery. She sighed deeply and kissed the rigid muscles of his abdomen very softly. Zhen smiled. She learned so fast, his lovely Xia Lou. He shuddered with the inside release which she had helped him have, light temporarily extinguished.