Dragon Soul
Page 2
“Ah, you have found the owner of the pink sex toy?” she asked in a voice that was very slightly German. She tipped her head in question while I got Mrs. P settled in her chair.
“Yes, thankfully. It was owned by a lady on the other side.” Wise to the ways of Mrs. P, I made sure to buckle her in before relaxing my guard.
“I will watch a movie,” Mrs. P graciously allowed. I got her headphones plugged in, and flipped through her movie choices, stopping when she said, “That one. No, the one with the male dancer. Did I tell you that I was a president’s hoochie-coo girl?”
“Yes, you mentioned that when I picked you up at your hotel.”
“I was quite the dancer in those days, you know. I received many shinies for my dancing, many pretties that I kept hidden. Men used to ogle me when I danced, and afterward, they gave me things.” She cackled quietly to herself. “It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but I remember it well. I remember each of the shinies given to me, although I don’t remember all of the men. A few I do remember, but they were the ones who gave me the best pretty things. I won’t tell you the president’s name, because I never was one to kiss and tell, but one time, he wanted me to pretend that he was a walrus—he had a very big mustache—and that I was a little native girl, and so we got naked while he took a tub of lard—”
“I’m sure you were an awesome dancer,” I interrupted, trying to expunge the sudden mental image she had generated, “but as I think I mentioned in L.A., for you to have been that particular president’s… uh… companion would mean that you were a very old lady indeed.”
Still chortling at her reminiscences, she patted my knee with a gnarled hand. “Appearances can be deceiving. You remember that, and you’ll survive just fine.”
Survive? I didn’t realize that was in question. I gave her another suspicious glance, but she was settled back happily watching her movie. Mrs. P had a way of inserting an unexpected word into a sentence that made me feel uncomfortable. And then there was her mention of knowing my late husband…
“She is quite the character, isn’t she?” our rowmate said with a benign smile directed past me toward Mrs. P.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, she surely is that.”
“And you said you are going to Egypt together?”
“Cairo,” I agreed. “My husband’s cousin… uh… man, I really can’t think of his name… he asked me if I’d escort Mrs. P to her Nile river cruise since he couldn’t take her, and she’s a bit frail and could use a helping hand.”
“Oh, that sounds so very exotic,” Claudia said with a little sigh. “I can only imagine how wonderful a cruise up the Nile would be.”
“Down it, actually.” I made an apologetic gesture. “The Nile flows north, so the ship sails downriver.”
“How fascinating,” she said politely, then added, “Will your husband be joining you there?”
I leaned forward and pulled my own book from the bag under my seat, using the time to put a placid expression on my face. “My husband passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her expression contrite. “I really put my foot in it, did I not? Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Jian… my husband… we weren’t married very long.” Her face was filled with sympathy, so I did something I seldom did: I unburdened. “In fact, he died less than an hour after we were married. We didn’t even get a wedding night together. It was… it was so horrible.”
“You poor thing. How terribly tragic.” She leaned across the aisle to give my arm a sympathetic pat. “Do you mind if I ask what happened? If you do not wish to talk about it—”
I glanced over to make sure Mrs. P was still settled, and was relieved to see her eyes closed. “I don’t mind at all, but there’s not too much to it. I met him while I was working as a tour guide in Chinatown. The one in San Francisco.”
“How very interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met a tour guide.”
“I’m not one anymore. I really got the job because I look Asian—well, I suppose I am Asian, or at least partly so, according to the orphanage where I was left as a baby—and the owner of the tour company said tourists liked authenticity.” I shrugged, but I wasn’t certain if I was dismissing the eight months I spent showing tourists around or the fact that I didn’t know my own parents’ ethnicities. “One day, I bumped into a handsome man on the sidewalk in front of one of the shops we take the tourists to, and four days later, we were getting married at the courthouse. Unfortunately, there was a drunk driver outside, and as we were crossing the street to the parking lot…” I swallowed back the harsh memories. “Jian knocked me out of the way so I wasn’t hurt, but he… he wasn’t so lucky.”
“How very tragic,” she repeated. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said, swamped with remembered guilt. “If he hadn’t taken the time to push me out of the way…”
Her hand moved again, as if she wanted to give me another reassuring pat, but stopped herself this time. “You can’t think like that. What ifs will always plague you if you let them. I’m sure your husband did what he thought was best.”
“Yes,” I agreed sadly, struggling with the secret fact that although I’d fallen hard for Jian, we had been together such a short time, I wasn’t sure anymore if I was grieving for his loss or for losing our potential life together. “It’s been a hard couple of years. He wasn’t American, you see, and I had no idea who his family were in China, and no way to contact them. I tried to go through the Chinese embassy, but they just said they had no record of him. I even hired a private detective, but he drew a blank as well, saying that Jian must have come into the country illegally.”
“Oh, my. That doesn’t sound…” She bit off the rest of her comment, no doubt aware it was less than polite.
“No, it wasn’t good. There I was, newly widowed to a man I barely knew, with no idea of who his family was or how to find them. I had quit my job to marry him, and the owner of the tour company was so pissed, he refused to take me back. Then things just kind of went to hell in a handbasket when the police were asking who Jian was, and why I had married him so quickly, and on and on.”
“Yes, thankfully. It was owned by a lady on the other side.” Wise to the ways of Mrs. P, I made sure to buckle her in before relaxing my guard.
“I will watch a movie,” Mrs. P graciously allowed. I got her headphones plugged in, and flipped through her movie choices, stopping when she said, “That one. No, the one with the male dancer. Did I tell you that I was a president’s hoochie-coo girl?”
“Yes, you mentioned that when I picked you up at your hotel.”
“I was quite the dancer in those days, you know. I received many shinies for my dancing, many pretties that I kept hidden. Men used to ogle me when I danced, and afterward, they gave me things.” She cackled quietly to herself. “It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but I remember it well. I remember each of the shinies given to me, although I don’t remember all of the men. A few I do remember, but they were the ones who gave me the best pretty things. I won’t tell you the president’s name, because I never was one to kiss and tell, but one time, he wanted me to pretend that he was a walrus—he had a very big mustache—and that I was a little native girl, and so we got naked while he took a tub of lard—”
“I’m sure you were an awesome dancer,” I interrupted, trying to expunge the sudden mental image she had generated, “but as I think I mentioned in L.A., for you to have been that particular president’s… uh… companion would mean that you were a very old lady indeed.”
Still chortling at her reminiscences, she patted my knee with a gnarled hand. “Appearances can be deceiving. You remember that, and you’ll survive just fine.”
Survive? I didn’t realize that was in question. I gave her another suspicious glance, but she was settled back happily watching her movie. Mrs. P had a way of inserting an unexpected word into a sentence that made me feel uncomfortable. And then there was her mention of knowing my late husband…
“She is quite the character, isn’t she?” our rowmate said with a benign smile directed past me toward Mrs. P.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, she surely is that.”
“And you said you are going to Egypt together?”
“Cairo,” I agreed. “My husband’s cousin… uh… man, I really can’t think of his name… he asked me if I’d escort Mrs. P to her Nile river cruise since he couldn’t take her, and she’s a bit frail and could use a helping hand.”
“Oh, that sounds so very exotic,” Claudia said with a little sigh. “I can only imagine how wonderful a cruise up the Nile would be.”
“Down it, actually.” I made an apologetic gesture. “The Nile flows north, so the ship sails downriver.”
“How fascinating,” she said politely, then added, “Will your husband be joining you there?”
I leaned forward and pulled my own book from the bag under my seat, using the time to put a placid expression on my face. “My husband passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her expression contrite. “I really put my foot in it, did I not? Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Jian… my husband… we weren’t married very long.” Her face was filled with sympathy, so I did something I seldom did: I unburdened. “In fact, he died less than an hour after we were married. We didn’t even get a wedding night together. It was… it was so horrible.”
“You poor thing. How terribly tragic.” She leaned across the aisle to give my arm a sympathetic pat. “Do you mind if I ask what happened? If you do not wish to talk about it—”
I glanced over to make sure Mrs. P was still settled, and was relieved to see her eyes closed. “I don’t mind at all, but there’s not too much to it. I met him while I was working as a tour guide in Chinatown. The one in San Francisco.”
“How very interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met a tour guide.”
“I’m not one anymore. I really got the job because I look Asian—well, I suppose I am Asian, or at least partly so, according to the orphanage where I was left as a baby—and the owner of the tour company said tourists liked authenticity.” I shrugged, but I wasn’t certain if I was dismissing the eight months I spent showing tourists around or the fact that I didn’t know my own parents’ ethnicities. “One day, I bumped into a handsome man on the sidewalk in front of one of the shops we take the tourists to, and four days later, we were getting married at the courthouse. Unfortunately, there was a drunk driver outside, and as we were crossing the street to the parking lot…” I swallowed back the harsh memories. “Jian knocked me out of the way so I wasn’t hurt, but he… he wasn’t so lucky.”
“How very tragic,” she repeated. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said, swamped with remembered guilt. “If he hadn’t taken the time to push me out of the way…”
Her hand moved again, as if she wanted to give me another reassuring pat, but stopped herself this time. “You can’t think like that. What ifs will always plague you if you let them. I’m sure your husband did what he thought was best.”
“Yes,” I agreed sadly, struggling with the secret fact that although I’d fallen hard for Jian, we had been together such a short time, I wasn’t sure anymore if I was grieving for his loss or for losing our potential life together. “It’s been a hard couple of years. He wasn’t American, you see, and I had no idea who his family were in China, and no way to contact them. I tried to go through the Chinese embassy, but they just said they had no record of him. I even hired a private detective, but he drew a blank as well, saying that Jian must have come into the country illegally.”
“Oh, my. That doesn’t sound…” She bit off the rest of her comment, no doubt aware it was less than polite.
“No, it wasn’t good. There I was, newly widowed to a man I barely knew, with no idea of who his family was or how to find them. I had quit my job to marry him, and the owner of the tour company was so pissed, he refused to take me back. Then things just kind of went to hell in a handbasket when the police were asking who Jian was, and why I had married him so quickly, and on and on.”
