“So, he’s your Mei Jinzhao from all those years ago,” she said once he’d finished his theatrics and the scenery had started to emerge around them, verdant and buzzing under the June sun. “你们琴瑟和鸣.”13
Tinseng couldn’t deny it, so he groaned instead.
“I’m so happy for you, A-Seng.”
“Ugh, jiejie, stop!”
“Laurence is happy for you too.”
“Happy enough to have us both underfoot?”
“There’s plenty of room,” Yukying insisted. “Nothing would make me happier, A-Seng. You don’t have to answer now but—oh! Turn here!”
They had to pay attention to the map for a while. Outside Paris, the roads became rural quickly, visible scars on the body of a country still recovering from two hellish wars. Signage was haphazard at best, reflecting the French mentality that if you didn’t already know where you were going, you probably weren’t wanted. They passed fields still unable to grow anything, other fields that had fared better, orchards that stretched on and on, white barns with huge painted letters to lure tourists to stop, low walls of neat white stone, rolling hills stretching in every direction. Between Yukying peering at the map and Tinseng paying close attention to the kilometers traveled, they only missed one turn, but the test run had been a good idea; it would have been impossible to do this for the first time in the dark.
At Yukying’s instruction, Tinseng turned off the main road onto a road that cut across wide fields of sunflowers on one side, grapes on the other. While the rest of the drive had been marked mostly by working farms, these fields were maintained for show. The land used to be proper countryside, but now it had been bought up by the rich. Every few miles, they passed huge gates or statues marking the entrance to an estate. They could occasionally see the homes themselves at the end of long, winding driveways, with glimpses of guest houses, stables, pools, and gardens.
“Have you seen the two lions yet?”
“We’re getting close,” Yukying said with her nose in the map. “Slow down; let me read the number on that sign.”
When they found Grodescu’s home, Tinseng let the car idle as they stared down the long drive. It narrowed to a point and disappeared into the trees before the house could be seen. Tinseng got the sense that if they drove down, they, too, would be swallowed.
“Should we go look?” Yukying asked. It wouldn’t be peculiar at all for someone to add this place to their sightseeing; it was a common pastime to go look at the stately country houses and grounds—they sold hand-printed guides in the nearby villages—and on the road, they’d passed many families on similar trips. After a moment, he nodded.
“Let’s do it. Count the doors and windows on the first floor; I’ll take the second and third.”
Even closed up for the season, the house was impressive. Its three stories and newer addition were large enough to imply wealth without being ostentatious. The old wing—eighteenth-century if Tinseng had to guess—crumbled elegantly. Ivy grew in controlled chaos, and every brick and shingle gleamed from constant care. The addition was probably added after the war. The immaculate green lawn in the middle of the driveway spoke of incredible amounts of time wasted on upkeep. To the west side of the house, an entrance to a formal garden had been constructed from hedges and rosebushes. It was a beautiful old place. And yet . . .
“It’s so empty,” Yukying murmured, voicing what was in his heart just like always.
“Too quiet,” Tinseng agreed. He could almost count on one hand the nights he’d spent without the sounds of barking dogs, gates slamming, arguments, drunks happily singing as they walked home. Yichang, Hong Kong, Paris—three different cities, but the sound of children’s shouting laughter, that was a constant, the same in every language. Here, what was there of humanity? A person could so easily lose themselves in all this silence.
“‘The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside,’” Tinseng murmured, staring down the emptiness. They remained a few moments longer. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
At 4:00 p.m., Tinseng and Jinzhao left Paris once again, this time in a Citroën 2CV, a deux chevaux as the locals called it, a car no one would think twice to see on the side of the road. Only a few miles outside the city, Jinzhao fell asleep against the window, leaving the driver to make his own company. It was probably good, even if it left Tinseng bored; the brain healing, or something like that.
He slowed the car to a crawl. When he reached the farm service road where he planned to hide the car, he steered it down into the ditch and over until the wheels on the passenger’s side crunched the edge of the field’s crop.
Jinzhao had woken when the car had tilted, and now he looked over to Tinseng, sleep-mussed hair in his eyes.
“Hey, Jinzhao, if I threw green plums at you from my toy horse and then left for years, would you wait for me?”
“Is that not what I already did?”
“Well! For more years, then.”
“Yes. Forever.”
“Forever is a long time.”
Jinzhao smiled. “Not long enough.”
Their mouths crashed together, and time folded together to create an unbroken moment between this kiss and the one in the basement the previous day—as if this were a continuation, as if everything between had been a dream.
But no dream lasted forever, and eventually the crick in Tinseng’s neck insisted he pull away.
“Grodescu’s is a half-mile walk to the south,” he explained as they slid out of the car. The wheat was taller than both of them; no one would see the car unless they were practically on top of it. “Come on, this way.”
They began their journey stalking through the grass on the side of the road. Only three cars passed on their walk, and the lane gave them plenty of warning; it was so quiet they could hear the engines long before headlights crested the hill. When the first drove by, they made sure to lie down flat in the grass. It was only about 6:30 p.m. and the sun was far from setting; they wanted to be seen by no one.
That first time, Tinseng had pulled Jinzhao down without thinking; as he lay far away on the scratching grass, he’d realized what an opportunity he’d just wasted. The next time they heard a car, he fell to the ground and pulled Jinzhao directly on top of him.
“Tins—”
“Be quiet,” he hissed against the shell of Jinzhao’s ear. “Do you want them to hear us?”
Then he plunged his hand into Jinzhao’s hair and kissed him like he was drowning. He arched his hips up and pulled every devastating move at once, then broke the kiss roughly to turn his head—Jinzhao bit the long cord of his neck on instinct—to look out at the road. Dark again. They were clear.
Tinseng sprung up, leaving Jinzhao in the dust. He looked down at his shocked lover with an air of impatience.
“Well? We’re on a schedule, Jinzhao. Now’s not the time to dawdle.”
Oh. Jinzhao looked like he wanted to murder him. Tinseng wrestled down a maniacal grin and continued south toward the house. It felt exactly like turning his back on a hungry predator: Every hindbrain instinct wanted to flee. He didn’t, remaining slow and steady as giddy anticipation raced through him. He didn’t turn around, not even once.
When they heard the third engine, Tinseng shivered. All his senses sharpened. Jinzhao had been silent behind him but for the slight crunch of dry grass. He wasn’t quite sure how close the other man was, whether he was a few meters away or right behind him; whether he would feel breath on his neck; whether a voice would be in his ear as he’s being taken down—
