Chapter 107: Three Nights, Two Days
A completely unfamiliar touch made her heart skip a beat: their bodies pressed tightly together through the thin fabric of the dress, and she could even feel the smooth skin of his slender, strong legs. It was a familiar man's skin, yet it felt even more unfamiliar. This unrestrained intimacy, perversely justified in this situation, made her feel a brief moment of discomfort. This discomfort made her resist, so stiff. In the rhythm of more than ten quarter and eighth notes, she felt like a puppet in his hands, forced to jump passively. The close breath and the friction of their bodies, her stiffness and his composure, made her feel more like a novice prostitute on stage, with poor technique, her hands clinging to the shoulders of a skilled client, nuzzling his cheeks, clumsily seeking pleasure...
She forced herself to ignore the discomfort caused by the physical touch, but she could not ignore the low breathing next to her ear, which intertwined with her own breathing. In the accompaniment of the accordion and violins, she heard a third voice - as if there was a hoarse male voice in the air saying: kiss me, touch me, I want you.
Her head was buzzing, and her cheeks were visibly burning, a situation made more awkward by the fact that her face was pressed against his shoulder and her legs were pressed against his left leg.
As expected, amidst the melody of a cello glissando, he suddenly turned her back to him, interlocking her arms in front of her body. It was a deeply aggressive position; as he rested his chin on the top of her head, he had completely enclosed her in his embrace. Her back could feel the rise and fall of his broad chest against hers, and he could sense that her entire body was heating up. So she heard the deep voice next to her ear, asking her in English, "Shame, eh?"
"Just..." Her mind went blank for a moment, "just a fraid of makekinistake."
He said: "then learn to."
Why learn it? Her face flushed again.
She moved uncomfortably, and his hands immediately clamped her tighter. His voice became lower and softer, almost commanding: "Don't think, don't talk."
Although she immediately fell silent, deprived of the right to talk, every nerve ending was highly sensitive. She could almost feel her skin pouring out of his smooth and soft trousers and her soft silk dress, and even the air was filled with strong courtship signals.
Someone has talked about the significance of music in film. Good film music isn't just about beautiful music; it should be seamlessly integrated with the plot, every beat in tune. It can be the roar of a desperate scream, the last, faint whimper of a starving soul frozen to death in the wilderness, the swaying waist of a beautiful woman dancing in high heels, or the voice-over that complements the soulful clashing between men and women when love reaches its peak.
Why did people invent this kind of dance, using the intensity of the body to replace the appeals of the soul and the flesh?
This is simply pornography and refusing is considered rude.
Toes touching heels, head touching chin, in the intimate interaction, there were a few moments when she suddenly suspected that the people dancing around her had dispersed, and there were only the two of them left in the middle of the dance floor, and the rest of the people were looking at her spontaneously and intently.
Her heart was pounding like a drum, and she was in a state of panic. What made her even more suspicious was that she seemed to have no objection to his physical contact in public...
Why?
In a previous natural philosophy class, when they discussed biological evolution, she had briefly wondered: what, in terms of evolution, distinguishes humans from lower animals? Survival of the fittest, the weakest survive; the stronger males, among the suitors, triumph over the weaker, gaining the right to mate and reproduce—how is this any different from human society? That old, established professor of natural philosophy, who had to wear hearing aids to class, dated hundreds of women throughout his life without marrying, and, at sixty, still had a thirty-year-old teaching assistant girlfriend, said, "According to you, there's no difference between vertebrates and invertebrates. Mayflies are the oldest of the arthropods. Adults live for seven days and don't need to eat until they die. During mating time, females fly into a swarm of males for a 'flying marriage,' leaving them with a belly full of eggs to reproduce. Otherwise, their stomachs are empty. Tell me, what's the difference between mayflies and us?"
She couldn't answer.
This is one of the most ancient species, yet it has survived to this day, yet remains the lowest of the low. Beyond a hollow, transparent shell and a belly brimming with life to propagate its lineage, what distinguishes humans from mayflies? Beyond evolution, the evidence of a species' survival lies in its culture, the soul of a nation. The miracles left behind by primitive, ancient races often embody a naked fetish of reproduction—the highest art of primitive times. This unabashed worship is often viewed with amusement by modern people. What people fail to realize is that the aspirations of the flesh and spirit, embodied by this highly civilized vertebrate, have long cohered in every cell of human civilization.
If sex exists only to pass on offspring, then what is the difference between humans and mayflies?
So, people say: verbal communication allows people to understand each other's souls, while body movements are animalistic, carrying a primal, ancient bestiality and conveying carnal desires more directly. What words can't convey, what communication can't achieve, the body can convey. For emotions that require both body language and language, she could only think of one word—the greatest lie of generations of human civilization, the most unnatural state of life, which triggers the secretion of abnormal hormones, such as dopamine and adrenal glands, and causes extraordinary sensitivity.
She shook her head and immediately cleared the word from her mind.
If there was anything she wasn't good at, it was understanding and expressing emotions; and this seemed to be exactly what he was best at.
Where should I start learning?
He led her in a circle, then took a step back, leaning her entire weight onto him as the last note stammered. She leaned against his right chest, looking up. Xie Zeyi was looking back at her. Her entire body could feel the rise and fall of his heavy breathing. Behind his dark lashes lay a pool of deep black pupils, devoid of expression or spirit, yet she seemed to be able to see his entire soul within them. The blood boiling in his pupils and the veins beneath his skin shook her to her core.
She looked at him and he looked at her.
She didn't quite understand and wanted to know more.
When the song ended and the dancing crowd dispersed, everyone returned to their laughter and conversation. When he put her on the ground, she was still looking at him, very seriously.
Xie Zeyi looked at her, "Do you understand?"
That word could also mean: Do you understand? Do you learn? Do you know? She decided to interpret it as the first, so she continued to stare at him.
Suddenly, there was a certain emotion in his eyes, as if he wanted to use an action to make her understand this emotion and put it into practice immediately, but at this time someone came over and said, "Mr. Xie, please come upstairs to talk."
In similar social occasions, people should often come to see him. He left with someone, and she secretly breathed a sigh of relief, but she still stayed in the middle of the dance floor, as if her soul had forgotten to take her body with her.
Xie Zeyi walked out of the dance floor and suddenly turned back.
She was startled and woke up as if from a dream.
Xie Zeyi bowed, supported her arms and looked at her: "Wait a moment."
She nodded, turned around and walked through the couples coming and going on the dance floor.
——
Yunyan and Miss Wei were angrily returning to the bench. Before she even got close, she heard Baoli ask, "Why aren't you dancing anymore?"
Miss Wei complained: "Lin and I both felt that the Japanese were being too aggressive..."
Yun Yan's face was very gloomy. "He was a Japanese major."
Baoli laughed and said, "I've said it before, ballroom dancing is full of love between men and women, especially Spanish dance." At this moment, she looked up and saw Chu Wang walking back. He glanced at her, turned away and added, "Didn't the other Miss Lin also dance passionately with the British captain?"
Yun Yan turned his head to look, snorted and said, "She?"
Miss Wei said angrily, "That Fujima even asked if Lin and I wanted to go to the Bund Racecourse together." She glanced up at Chu Wang vaguely and said, "Who do you really think we are?"
Chu Wang came back to his senses, looked up and asked Miss Wei: "What did you say?"
Miss Wei thought that this girl from an unmarried family had grown up to be able to accuse her, but she did not dare to refute him in person, so she just lowered her head and murmured a few words.
Chu Wang took two or three steps forward, grabbed her high-tied cheongsam, and asked loudly, "What did I ask you?"
The collar was not loose to begin with, and when she grabbed it, Miss Wei could hardly breathe. She was very strong in her anger, and the cheongsam was her most valuable piece, so she was afraid of tearing it. She could only plead, "I, I just followed what they said."
Baoli sat still. Yunyan wanted to come over and pull her out, but seeing that Baoli didn't move, he didn't want to persuade her too hard. He just said, "Isn't it the truth? What's there to be angry about?"
Chu Wang said, "Shut up." Yun Yan's face turned pale. She didn't bother to pay attention to her and turned back to ask Miss Wei, "My first question is, what is the last name of that lieutenant colonel?"
"T-Fujima."
"What about after you refuse to dance with him again?"
Miss Wei was almost in tears. "Lingna was about to slap him, but a lady immediately came over and stopped her. She said that if Lingna didn't want to dance and watch the horse racing, she could accompany the major in her place."
"Where are they?"
"Isn't it in the middle of the dance floor?"
"Show me what that lady is wearing."
"A fine blue brocade cheongsam with a silver longevity character... Hey, it was still there just now?"
Chu Wang abruptly let go of her and hurried to see if the blue figure was still there. Miss Wei frantically smoothed the wrinkled collar of her cheongsam, but it wouldn't straighten out. Heartbroken, anxious, and furious, she stared at the purple figure before her, her fury rising. Seeing her eyes searching the dance floor, she hadn't noticed the dark figure approaching, so he took advantage of her and shoved her against him from behind. She was caught off guard, stumbling, and was pounced upon.
What Miss Wei hadn't expected was that the man was coming for her. With this push and pounce, the man immediately caught her in his arms. Miss Wei's plan failed, but Yun Yan suddenly stood up in a panic, his face full of anxiety and joy. He was so panicked that he pinched his fingers and shouted, "Yan, Yan Sangge!"
Zhenzhen, unable to refuse repeated invitations, went to the dance floor with him, but her eyes kept on Chu Wang. Upon noticing movement from her side, he immediately went to the dance floor and invited Miya to join him. As they returned to the bench, they happened to see Miss Wei pushing Chu Wang, and were even more surprised to find that the person who caught Chu Wang was actually Master Si!
Zhenzhen, who had originally planned to slap Miss Wei head-on, immediately changed her plan and decided to wait and see what would happen, ready to tell Yunyan to shut up at any moment. Miya, on the other hand, walked straight up to Miss Wei and stared intently and cheerfully at the front of her cheongsam, making her feel like she couldn't block it with her hand, and she didn't know what to do.
Chu Wang was pushed and pulled, and after a dizzy moment, he stood up. When he saw who was coming, he was stunned and called out softly, "Yan Sang?"
Yan Sang looked at her coldly without saying a word.
Seeing this, Yun Yan suddenly said to him: "She danced tango with the British soldiers. She was very happy after the dance, and she was still feeling unsatisfied afterwards..."
Yan Sang's face grew even darker. He glanced at her, his voice cold to the bone: "I know. Please shut up."
Miya smiled and said, "Who wouldn't dance at a social event like this? Young Master, relax. You're not a kid anymore."
"I just want to hear Ms. Lin Chuwang's answer." He looked down at her. "Are you having fun?"
She remained silent.
His lips turned pale. "Look up at me." His face was so pale that there was no trace of blood. He pointed at his eyes and roared at her in a deep voice with a little trembling, "Look into my eyes."
She looked up.
He looked at her fiercely.
Her eyes were pitch black, a faint flicker of star-shattered shadows within them. She looked at him with the same expression she had when she was thirteen, no difference at all. That look held unbridled admiration. She admired him, she liked him, worshipping and fawning over him to the point of looking at a deity, yet she hardly dared to meet his gaze. This kind of admiration and fondness would make any man smug and ecstatic. If you had seen that look, you would understand: no matter how far apart they were, no matter how out of touch they were, no matter how much she was slandered, he was always confident that she would belong to him alone, and only to him forever.
She looked at him now the same way she had looked at him when she was thirteen. It was the same expression, but it was wrong.
He had learned from his father that she was at the ball, and that Officer Bai Hua was also there. At some point, he felt a jolt in his heart, as if realizing something, and he came over almost without hesitation. When the guards stopped him, he had almost lost his patience to explain, and told them in a very rude manner that he was definitely qualified to be invited. He gave his name, and they invited him in. He immediately saw her in the crowd, dancing to the tango music of accordion and cello, led by Xie Zeyi... It didn't matter; it was ballroom dancing, he understood. But at a certain moment, he saw that the look in her eyes when she looked at Xie Zeyi was completely different from the look she had on him.
He was good at analyzing the most subtle changes in expression on everyone's face. This was his innate talent, a talent he had always been proud of. When he saw this expression, all the confidence he had built up was shattered.
He understood almost immediately what she herself might not have realized.
A woman does not age in a poet's poem, but the poet himself does.
"Look at me." He begged again and again, almost desperately, as if this would make her change her expression.
She was still looking at him, without blinking, without scruples, making him sink into the quagmire.
He grabbed her hand, pulled her to him, and kissed her fiercely!
She opened her eyes wide, not even having time to be surprised or resist.
Everyone behind the two of them was shocked, and someone not far away also looked over here.
She struggled several times but couldn't break free, so he kissed her even harder, almost trying to crush her in his arms. She wanted to speak but could only make "Mmm" sounds, and tears came out of her eyes due to the pain.
He seemed to feel the tears on her face and the sweet and fishy taste in his mouth, and finally let her go.
After they separated, she took a step back and touched her lips, leaving a small patch of bright red on her fingers.
Looking up at Yan Sang, the red on his lips was the only color on his face.
——
Qiao Maling imagined countless times the prospect of meeting him again. She deliberately wore the same thin, ivory-blue silk cheongsam she'd worn the first time they'd met. She'd been invited to her aunt's house, where he was struggling to communicate with Mr. Wu in Cantonese. Mr. Wu told him, "Chinese painting is all about structure and spirit; it should be completed in one stroke. If you use a sketching pen to outline and then fill in the colors, the spirit will be lost, and that's wrong." He smiled and nodded for a moment, his eyes fixed on her. Finally, he asked, "What are you talking about, Mr. Wu?" At that moment, she burst out laughing.
"Chinese women are paintings, green mountains and distant black eyebrows, a landscape painting." She smoothed the pleats of her cheongsam in front of the mirror. The cheongsam was many years old, but still in good condition. The wrinkles were unnatural. She smoothed it for a long time in front of the mirror, but the slightest movement caused the wrinkles to reappear. Her anxiety grew, and she was about to pull it hard, when she heard a voice behind her: "Do you need help?"
She turned around and saw him walk in. She hadn't expected him to come and had been waiting at the door for a long time; her failure to realize this was rude.
It didn't matter if the meeting wasn't pleasant. She suppressed her anxiety and invited him in. After he sat down, she expertly poured him tea, her fingers supporting the cup, smooth and flowing. She was grateful that her mother had taught her many traditional Eastern etiquettes, which she hadn't forgotten. She knew she was doing a good job, but after sitting down, she kept wondering if she should have fixed the stray hair from her ear somewhere, but had forgotten.
He politely thanked her for the tea.
She remembered his politeness. He was extremely tall and pale, almost bloodless; his whiteness and height, his upbringing and elegance, and his well-spoken manner made it easy for him to shed the old British image of the Chinese as hunched, sallow, and vulgar. In a few words, he won the respect of the white people and made them immediately regard him as one of their own.
This was part of her former fascination with him, but she remembered that he used to be capable of some harmless, playful irrationality, but now he was more distant and polite.
She was enjoying this moment of peace when he suddenly asked, "What does Mrs. Huang want to talk to me about?"
"The other day, I passed by the Star Ferry Pier and saw the Bluebird Cafe. I suddenly thought of you," she stared at the cup in his hand, trying to put on a natural smile, "so I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?"
The two people were facing a glass, and their shadows were vaguely reflected.
She glanced inside casually.
He sat calmly, a teacup in hand, his demeanor perfectly natural. And she saw herself: the moment she sat down, the wrinkles on her cheongsam became even more pronounced. She reached out to smooth it out, but was afraid to move too much and draw his attention. She moved, but in the mirror she noticed a growing sense of awkwardness in her movements, a sense of uncertainty about where to place her hands and feet. The wrinkles on her cheongsam remained unabated, but she dared not move again, so she simply endured and let them be.
After a long silence, she heard him say, "Ma Ling, you gave up on me first. I have nothing to feel guilty about, and neither do you."
She listened blankly, a gaping hole in her heart that no amount of effort could fill. Oh, how could she have forgotten? He was Xie Zeyi, the one who could read everyone's expressions. She'd barely begun, and he'd understood her entire situation. It was better for her to just say, "I miss you, I miss the time we were together, I still miss you," than to play it off and say vaguely, "I want to catch up with you."
He had given her countless chances, but she turned a blind eye and became arrogant because of his favor.
There is no one better.
Xie Zeyi put down the teacup and was about to get up and leave, but suddenly he noticed his shadow reflected in the glass in front of him.
She burst into tears, frantically, trying to stifle them, her face twitching as tears streamed down her face like crazy. Xie Zeyi stood still, a silent and indifferent spectator, watching her collapse in regret and irreparable self-blame.
Qiao Maling also saw what she looked like when the pain she had been suppressing finally erupted. A distorted, hateful face.
When she was hiding on the second floor watching them dancing, she should have realized that she should no longer humiliate herself.
They were like the first man and woman to dance jazz on the dance floor. He had been dead before, living with difficulty, perfunctorily, and rigidly. Suddenly, one day, he saw a woman whose every move unconsciously stimulated him, bringing him back to life bit by bit. She was unaware of this, so now, he had taken the initiative and began to tease her once again.
She had never seen Xie Zeyi like this before.
When she saw that man, and only that man, she saw something floating in his eyes. It was a man's soul.
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